


Doing Things That Friends Don't Do

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Biting, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Come Eating, Come Marking, Creampie, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Husbands, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Top Will Graham, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: A year after the fall, Will and Hannibal have settled into a fairly blissful, domestic harmony. But Will's imagination has never let him simply enjoy what he has - why should it start now?





	1. The Risk

**Author's Note:**

> this story will be two/three parts, I just wanted to get this first part out before RDC. enjoy Will being a total mess and Hannibal being Amused.
> 
> Title comes from "I Really Shouldn't Drink Around You" which I listened to one too many times, apparently.

"Good evening, Will. Would you like something to drink?"

 _Desperately_. But Will swallows, and shakes his head, waving away the offer of wine or whiskey before Hannibal can pour him a glass. It's been a building issue for some time, now – even with all he knows about Hannibal, after everything he's seen and done, to and in reaction to and for him, Will knows that it would only take the beginnings of a buzz for his tongue to loosen, his armor to slacken.

Hannibal tilts his head, but accepts Will's refusal and offers him water instead, and they settle down on opposite couches in the little living room that sits in the center of their current safehouse. Since the fall, they have lived in three countries and five houses, but this is the longest they've spent in any one place. Almost three months have gone by since Hannibal moved them here, and he has given no sign of wanting to move on. They are in Spain, in a modest villa that overlooks a large town nestled in the base of a cluster of mountains. Removed, and remote. Will likes it here – the sun and the warmth, the damp cling of humid air. It is a lot like Virginia in the spring, though less green.

He sips at his water, swallowing harshly like he's drinking straight tequila, and Hannibal mimics him, taking a drink of his dark wine, the same color as blood at night. He is golden and fine, relaxed in a modest suit compared to Will's jeans and t-shirt. No matter the weather or the occasion, Hannibal wears those same fine clothes, dressed in so many layers Will has almost forgotten what he looks like in just a shirt, or in the jumpsuit in Alana's cell.

Still, it's a flattering ensemble, and Will's eyes drop to the lax spread of his thighs, the exposed black color of his socks, his deceptively dainty ankles, his wide-spread hands. His shoulders, large and strong. He swallows, clears his throat, and looks away.

They sit in silence, as companionable as it is charged. Will hasn't had a drink for almost a year now, not since that glass of wine that toasted their new understanding of each other, in Hannibal's cabin by the bay.

Hannibal sighs, sipping again, the picture of ease. His free hand drums against his thigh, and when Will meets his eyes again, he finds them dark and focused on Will's face, as though studying a big cat and waiting for it to roll over and show its belly.

Will takes another drink, aches for something stronger that will calm the sudden clench in his abdomen, and says, "Something on your mind?"

"You have the look of a man with something on his," Hannibal replies coolly, smiling in that way he does that doesn't really change his face, but brightens his eyes. Will quite likes that look on him. It makes him think of dangerous things, like blood in his teeth and the shine of steel. His head tilts when Will merely shifts his weight and lets out a noncommittal hum. "Your day was pleasant, I presume."

Will nods. Hannibal had gotten a job at one of the nearby historical sites, his grasp of language landing him as a multi-lingual tour guide for the ruined castle that sits high in the mountains. Will has a boat that he takes out during the day, fishing in the water, and sells the excess in the markets when it pleases him. They are not hurting for money, he knows that.

"Gloria keeps asking about you," Will asks, looking down at the golden wedding band on his left hand. Hannibal wears a similar one, for the sake of their cover story – husbands, ex-patriates from America come to settle and live their twilight years in the warm Spanish sun. "Every time she sees me, she invites us to dinner at her house."

Hannibal nods, sipping his wine. "And you keep refusing," he replies, a question and not a question.

Will nods.

"May I ask why?"

Will breathes out, and takes another long drink from his water glass. He has tried, given their new lifestyle, to be more open and honest with Hannibal. There are so many lies spread across his existence elsewhere, he has no desire to bring that kind of deception home with him.

"I find it…difficult," he says, and winces at the word, for it's not quite the right one, "to pretend."

Hannibal is quiet, and then his head tilts again, silently asking for more information.

"There is a certain intimacy expected of married couples," Will explains, his eyes on his wedding ring. They have never said the words, never signed any legal papers except those made to cement their new identities of the day, and they have certainly never sworn before God and men to be devoted to each other the way husbands and wives do. No, that ceremony was done on the edge of a cliff, bathed in blood and moonlight. "And Spanish people are fond of their drinks."

Hannibal hums, lips pursed out in thought. The innards of them are stained the dark color of his wine, and he nods, as though to himself. "I have noticed your dry period," he says lightly, and Will sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Have you taken on the mantle of teetotaler?"

Will's jaw clenches, he lifts his chin and shakes his head. "Not exactly."

Hannibal considers this. "Do you think too much wine would loosen your tongue?" he asks, though from his tone Will understands that he doesn't put much stock in that question. Will has always been a tremendously capable liar – Hannibal knows that better than most.

"I find it hard to compartmentalize, when it comes to you," Will replies plainly.

Hannibal smiles, his eyes brightening further in understanding. "I see."

Will nods, and takes another drink.

"For how long have you desired me sexually, Will?"

Will doesn't choke, forces himself to finish his mouthful, to swallow in a deliberate motion. Hannibal's eyes shine with amusement, proud that Will does not let himself be taken off-guard.

Still, he is defensive when he says; "About as long as you've desired me, I imagine."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his lips part to show his teeth in a wide smile. "A long while, then," he admits, happily. Will swallows, and nods. "I had wondered. If we both desire each other, why haven't you voiced it earlier?"

"Why haven't you?" Will challenges.

"Truthfully?" Hannibal asks, and Will lifts his chin; he demands no less. "I will be the first to admit we have done grievous harm to each other, Will. We have shared deep wounds, and deep intimacy. I am perfectly content with our life, however, and would not risk it for the sake of physical satisfaction."

Will huffs, and rolls his eyes. "That's a cop-out and you know it."

Hannibal smiles, and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and both hands wrapped around his wineglass stem. Will fights the urge to rear back, swallows down the desire to lift his shoulders and spread his legs.

But Hannibal sees his lack of reaction as easily as he sees Will's desires. He always has, Will thinks, just as Will has always seen his. "Are you afraid I might still hurt you?" Hannibal asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, head tilting again. "That I might kiss you and cup your face with one hand, and gut you with the other?"

Will winces, and presses his lips together, free hand flattening over his stomach. The scar still hurts, sometimes, aches like his shoulders do in bad weather. It is something he will never be rid of. He still remembers the look on Hannibal's face the last time they embraced, for any reason aside from binding each other's wounds and bathing each other when one of them was too weak or injured to take care of themselves. He knows the signs of touch-starvation in a man, and can see it in Hannibal plainly, as they circle each other like two ships on a wide, dark ocean. Too close to avoid, too timid to touch.

"No," he replies, honestly. "I'm not afraid of that."

Hannibal smiles.

"What comes after, then," he says.

 _Yes_. Because what if this is what Hannibal has been waiting for, and then if Will gives it to him, it's all over? Or what if they cannot satisfy each other in this carnal way. Sometimes wanting something, aching for it, is better than having it. The effects of a drug are more damaging than the desire for it, and Will can admit Hannibal inspires an addict-like behavior in him.

He licks his lips, shivering when Hannibal's eyes drop to the motion and darken with hunger. Dangerous, predatory. Will's thighs press together, and his fingers tighten in his shirt. "I know where your mouth has been," he says sharply.

At that, Hannibal laughs. "You're not so innocent yourself, darling."

Will doesn't argue.

"Are you worried that it won't feel good?" Hannibal presses, and Will regrets saying anything at that moment.

"No," he snaps. Adds, sharp with sarcasm; "I'm sure you're a very talented lover."

Hannibal hums, and takes a sip of his wine, eyes heavy-lidded.

"I certainly hope your resistance isn't some futile grasp to your sense of heterosexuality," he says, the last word colored with a thin layer of distaste. "You should know better than anyone that desires are fluid, and can change with the year, or with specific people. Can come and go like seasons."

"Maybe," Will replies. "Or maybe it just gets worse, and worse, until it's not enough anymore."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and he straightens, leaning back against the couch. "Ah," he murmurs, heavy with understanding. "I see."

"I don't want to talk about this," Will snaps.

"Then we won't," Hannibal replies, like it's as easy as that. Will glares at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he finishes his water, and stands to retire to bed.

"Good."

 

 

Hannibal has become better at fishing. He is utterly patient, the perfect hunter, and Will knows Hannibal cannot control the weather, but a few days later there is a terrible storm, bad enough to loosen some of the tiles on the roof, and cause a leak in Will's bedroom that renders it unfit to sleep in. He doesn't put it past Hannibal to have tampered with the roof, for every other part of the house seems fine, but the fact of the matter is that Will cannot sleep in his bedroom until the ceiling is repaired.

Which leaves Hannibal's bedroom, or the couch. Will's shoulders ache terribly in the aftermath of the bad weather, and as he gathers serviceable blankets and pillows, he finds Hannibal watching his stiff movements with an exasperated air.

"Will," he says, as Will tosses and turns and tries to get comfortable. "You're being ridiculous. My bed is perfectly large enough for both of us."

And Will is tired. Tired of fighting, tired of his shoulders aching. He closes his eyes and lets out a petulant, aggravated sound, rolling onto his back to find Hannibal standing behind the back of the couch, gazing down at him with an amused air. He is smiling, head tilted, and Will looks up at him and remembers the way he had looked, standing atop his second floor balcony and tossing notes down to Will to burn. This feels the same, on the precipice of some decision that will see Will bleeding out, split open.

"I don't trust myself around you," he says. Hannibal blinks, as though startled at the admission. He presses his lips together and lifts his gaze away, to the fireplace, brow furrowing in thought. His hands are in the pockets of his suit pants, making them stretch tight and Will forces his eyes not to linger there too long.

He's thought about it. Oh _God_ , has he thought about it. His imagination didn't die with the fall; it has been left to run wild and leave him panting, trying to keep up. He knows the heat of Hannibal's big, strong hands. Knows the warmth of his exhale on Will's neck. Knows, even, the strength of his shoulders and the broadness of his chest, the rush of his pulse beneath Will's cheek.

It wouldn't take much. One stray, wandering hand. One well-placed touch of lips to neck, one soft growl. His stomach clenches, and Hannibal's eyes drop to him again. His nostrils flare and Will's cheeks flush, and he bites his lip and looks away.

"Well," Hannibal says, overly-careful, "to quote a simple phrase; 'It takes two to tango'. I am perfectly capable of restraining myself." He smiles when Will meets his eyes again. "I know you might find it hard to believe, but I do not take pleasure in having an unwilling bedfellow. If you don't want me to touch you, Will, then I won't."

Will swallows, and sits up, the blanket he'd tucked around his shoulders falling to his lap. He's not fool enough to believe the couch would be more comfortable than Hannibal's bed, but he aches, _God_ does he ache, and while he might be able to resist when he's awake and sober, he doesn't know what might happen when he's asleep.

He bites his lower lip, and nods with a sigh, running his hands through his hair. He stands, and Hannibal smiles, leading the way to his bedroom, Will following behind and clutching the blankets and pillow to him like a shield.

He makes himself comfortable as Hannibal retires to the bathroom, changing into sleep clothes, brushing his teeth, whatever else he does as part of his nightly routine. Will watches him emerge from the bathroom, breath catching at the tight cling of his white t-shirt to his shoulders, to his stomach. His lounge pants are loose and comfortable-looking, a soft silk that he wants to touch. His fingers curl and he corrects himself, lying ramrod straight on the bed as Hannibal climbs in on the other side.

They do not touch – the bed is large enough that Will can cling to the very edge of it and make sure of that. They have laid like this before, when there was no other option, so the situation itself is not foreign, but Will feels alight and buzzing, immersed in Hannibal's scent, the soft fleece of the blankets and the cool sheets makes him want to stretch out and burrow into them.

Hannibal sighs, smiles at him, and rolls over to turn out the light. "Goodnight, Will," he says, and settles down, his back turned towards Will.

Will swallows, and rasps, "Goodnight." They lay in silence. Will breathes out, and tries to go to sleep.

 

 

Will wakes up hard, a sharp ache in his lower stomach and his cock that demands attention, and he winces. At some point in the night he rolled onto his belly, and he clenches his fingers beneath his pillow, teeth gritted as his hips roll down, seeking friction for his cock. Hannibal's scent fills his lungs, he drags in a heavy breath through parted teeth and bites down on the pillow with a whimper, rutting against the mattress in a desperate attempt to ease the ache in his body that seeks release.

There is a shower running, and Hannibal is not in bed with him. Incensed, bold, Will slides a hand down and sinks his grip below the waistband of his sweatpants and underwear, wrapping a tight hand around his cock and squeezing. It doesn't help, just makes the ache worse, and he trembles and moans into the pillow as quietly as he can, eyes clenched tightly shut. It takes two strokes before he's coming, flooding his underwear and dirtying his hand with a heavy gasp, and moans loudly into the pillow to try and stifle the sound.

The water shuts off, and Will gasps, scrambling out of bed. His thighs and the inside of his underwear is tacky and warm, and he flees from Hannibal's bedroom, down the hall and to his own bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

" _Fuck_ ," he groans, leaning back against the door. His hand is wet, smeared with thick trails of his seed, and his legs shake, knees buckling as he sinks to the floor. He doesn't know if the mess leaked onto Hannibal's sheets but he knows Hannibal's sense of smell will tell him what Will did, and his chest is cold with embarrassment, his shoulders heavy with mortification. He can't keep going like this – if just _sleeping_ in Hannibal's bed is enough to get him coming in his pants like a Goddamn teenager, he can't do it again.

He wipes his hand on his clothes idly, trembling and curled up against his bathroom door. There are only two courses of action: surrender, or cold turkey. His head, his heart, rejects the idea of leaving Hannibal – how could he possibly, after all they've been through together, and everything they've done? Even if he could reconcile it, he knows Hannibal would never let him leave for good. There would be another chase, another set of wounds dealt, and blood drawn. He can't, he _can't_ , every part of him rebels against the idea of a world without Hannibal.

But he cannot keep going like this. The ships have created a whirlpool, and they cannot fight the current anymore. But the idea of that physical intimacy, he will admit it, alone in this bathroom and shaking, fills him with so much anticipation, so much fear, coiled like twin snakes in his stomach and makes him feel sick. What if it's not enough? What if it's too much? What if this is the one thing they do not understand about each other, that they cannot provide for each other?

Yet. Will's upper lip curls, he snarls at the idea of Hannibal taking another lover. A sharp, possessive tug pulls behind his ribs – no. He will not allow it, _cannot_ allow it. But he's a fool to think Hannibal does not have physical desires like any man. Hannibal has admitted he desires Will, happily and without guile, and Will has admitted the same. They want each other, they _need_ each other, and the thought of anyone else having even a piece of Hannibal fills him with rage.

He pushes himself to his feet, sheds his clothes and steps into the shower to rinse himself off, not bothering with shampoo or body wash. Hannibal hasn't complained about his product of choice since he upgraded to a better aftershave, but Will knows he much prefers Will's natural scent, whatever the Hell he smells like to Hannibal.

He finishes with his shower and steps back out, drying himself off briskly and shivering as the water drips down from his hair, onto his shoulders. His underwear is a lost cause but his sweatpants are clean, and he slides them on and dons his shirt, balling up his stained underwear and going to his bedroom to add to his laundry.

When he emerges, Hannibal is in the kitchen, the scent of coffee and eggs filling the air. His hair is wet, slicked back on his head, he's wearing his lounge pants still and has a dark red sweater on, sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms and wrists.

He turns when Will enters, and smiles brightly. "Good morning, Will," he says. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a baby," Will murmurs. Hannibal seems pleased by that. If he could smell what Will did, he gives no indication, but nods to their coffee maker as though informing Will of its presence. Will goes to it and pours himself a cup, warming his hands around the mug and breathing in the steam. He leans against the counter, tries to make himself appear at ease as he watches Hannibal cook. He's so…elegant, in everything he does. Navigates the world with a capability and assuredness that Will can only dream of having.

His fingers tighten around his mug, pads burning against the heat, and he swallows a mouthful before it is properly cooled, burning the roof of his mouth. He doesn't care – it's a welcome distraction.

"Hannibal," he says, after a moment. Hannibal's head tilts, showing he's listening, but his eyes don't move from the eggs as they bubble and fry. "What if I wanted you to kiss me?"

Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile. "Then I would," he replies, as though it's that simple. "As often as I was able. You have a very tempting mouth."

Will blushes, and bites his lower lip, shifting his weight. He breathes in, breathes out. "What if I wanted you to touch me?"

Hannibal's hand flexes around the spatula, his nostrils flare as he lets out a heavy breath. "Then I would," he says, softer now. His eyes dart to Will, briefly, before he goes back to the eggs, flipping them over to cook on the other side. "The rest of you is just as tempting."

Will swallows. "What if I never want it?" he asks. Hannibal goes still, at that, and turns the burner off, moving the eggs away so they don't burn. He straightens, and meets Will's eyes. "What if I chose to find someone else?"

Hannibal is quiet, and a strangely vulnerable look crosses his face when he says, "I…don't think you'd like my answer."

"Tell me anyway."

Hannibal sucks in a breath, fingers flexing and curling at his sides. "If you never want to share that with me, Will, then I won't make you. I meant what I said before – a life with you is better than any other life I could live, and you make me happy, and with you, I am perfectly content." He's not meeting Will's eyes, staring instead at the mug of coffee in his hands. "And I like to think you are happy with me. Do you think anyone else would see you like I do?"

Will swallows. "No," he says, honestly. "I wouldn't let them."

"Then by your logic, you would be choosing to hide a part of yourself away again. And I cannot abide that. I will not. Not when it took so much to get us here."

Will presses his lips together and nods. It's what he expected to hear, but hearing it has affected him nonetheless. He sips his coffee, closes his eyes, and sighs, setting the mug down.

He understands. Of course he does. The idea that Hannibal would not feel the same visceral, possessive claim over who he is, is laughable. Just as Will would never let Hannibal touch another person, so too would Hannibal know Will could never be happy in the arms of someone else.

_Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the mere sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?_

"Have you ever been with a man?" he asks.

"A few times," Hannibal replies. "A long time ago."

"Is it much different?"

Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile. "Pleasure is pleasure, Will," he replies.

Will hums. "I suppose that's true."

It would be the natural thing, now, to invite Hannibal closer, breakfast be damned. To demand his touch, his kiss, to let things go wherever they end up, but Will fights the urge to give in so easily. This isn't something he can just _do_ , he knows enough about himself to know that.

He takes his mug in hand and swallows another mouthful of coffee, eyes pointedly on the pan of eggs. Hannibal breathes out, smiles, and turns his attention back towards it, and the tension snaps like a rubber band. Will goes to the dining room, sits, and waits for Hannibal to bring their meal. It is a small, light offering, neither of them particularly gluttonous first thing in the morning – fried eggs, strips of bacon, and a small cup of seasonal fruit. Hannibal brings water, and sits at the head of the table, as he always does, Will on his right.

Will sighs – Hannibal must go to work soon, and Will can go to the lake if he feels inclined. He bites down on the end of the bacon, pleased at the crisp, salty flavor, and swallows it without chewing. "I'll accept Gloria's invitation, when she next offers," he says.

Hannibal looks up, brows lifted.

Then, he smiles, when Will offers nothing more. "I look forward to it."


	2. The Gamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is......turning into something else. oops.

There are few things in Will's life he can remember being as focused on, as utterly obsessed with, as Hannibal's hands. He has seen those hands do terrible things, and seen them move with such delicate and precise grace, it brings to mind images of knives, of snowfall, and the bright shimmering twirls of ribbons flowing around the bodies of dancers.

It makes Will think of warmth. Hannibal, like Will, has darkened under the Spanish sun, his skin a fine golden tan. With his hands, his teeth, he makes Will think of wildcats and fields of long grass through which one might, if they're lucky, see a glint of sharp eyes before everything goes dark.

Hannibal, simply put, warms him. It makes alarm bells ring in his head like a detector for carbon monoxide, because Hannibal is the kind of influential man that seeps, and worms his way in so calmly and capably that by the time he's there, he's always been there, sitting in the back of Will's skull. He can make it seem like you're the one having to catch up with your own thoughts and actions. He's dangerous, Lord is he dangerous, in the same beautiful way a loaded gun is when it sits in the center of a Russian Roulette table.

That is not to say that Will is scared of him. No, he thinks his emotions, now, are too deeply scarred for fear. Fear is…basic, instinctual, and spawned from the presence of the unknown but Hannibal is known, to him. Will knows exactly what he wants. He knows the kinds of things Hannibal will do, to get what he wants. And he is not afraid of pain, or of death, or of Hannibal himself. He barely thinks about the first two things anymore.

What he does think about is Hannibal. Like a dog refusing to be led astray, like any one of the animals he left back in Virginia, thoughts of Hannibal pursue him, and humans are 'persistence' hunters. They simply have to keep going, and Will has had far less time to learn how to hunt like that. Even now, he behaves more as a fisherman or trapper, laying down his lures and pits and waiting for Hannibal to come too close.

After their conversation the other night, Will has been thinking, thinking, thinking. He's starting to come to the conclusion that Hannibal will not swim closer, no matter how enticing the lure is, and Will must jump in the water to catch him by hand. That's where the metaphor gets clumsy, but the sentiment is the same. The fish that got away is harder to catch twice, but the one that was actually pulled from the water, saw the dreaded fate that waited for him on the boat, and still yet managed to survive will be impossible to bait again. Hannibal will not be lured, tricked, or parlayed with a third time.

When Will – if? No, when, it is surely a 'When' by now – breaks, he must do so honestly.

…He can't stop thinking about Hannibal's Goddamn hands. He has felt them almost everywhere by now, what with the fall damn near killing them. For many weeks it wasn't clear whether they would truly survive it, much less be as whole as they are now. Will's shoulders can lock up to the point of immobility, still, and it's only in the last month or so he can go more than a day without stretching or popping them. Hannibal's gunshot wound had torn him up on the inside, there are still things he doesn't make for himself and Will that Will suspects is more out of a dietary requirement than any lack of ability to source the stuff. Not that he minds. He still can't pronounce half the shit Hannibal makes, delicious though it always is.

He is watching those hands now. He doesn't know what Hannibal is making but it apparently involves spaghetti squash, and his eyes are fixed on the broad spread of Hannibal's fingers around the bulbous back of the halved squash, his other hand wrapped around a scoop-like tool that is hollowing out the innards, the orange flesh of it falling into the bowl beneath. His forearms are bare, tendons flexing, veins standing out on the backs of his hands. His knuckles, pale – not white, but pale – his grip strong. The air reeks of cinnamon, and Will can already feel the crunch of the food between his teeth.

Will swallows, and there are so many times Hannibal touched him like he holds that Goddamn squash, just as broad, just as firm. The time Will almost shot Clarke Ingram is the one most persistent, his smile and his warmth and the pleasure and pride in his eyes.

"I could never entirely predict you." Well, Will feels predictable now. Boring, maybe.

And so it comes to this; watching Hannibal scooping out piles of strings of that thick, orange squash – or maybe it's a tuber? It's called a squash but who really gives a fuck because Hannibal has stopped hollowing out said tuber-squash-vegetable and is now looking at Will, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Something on your mind, Will?" he asks, and Will swallows and wishes he had wine in his hand. Water tastes too boring, too bland. There's no way he is going to be able to concentrate with those eyes on him, un-dulled by whiskey and blood and wine. God, a year sober is a year too damn long, and Will is so thirsty, he's unquenchable, a dry and barren desert aching for rain.

He tries to wet his lips, can't, tries again and downs the rest of his glass. In front of him is nothing save for a pack of playing cards that he doesn't remember buying, maybe it came with the house. He grabs it, takes it out and shuffles the deck.

"You wanna play War?" he asks.

Hannibal's head tilts, and his brow rises. "War," he repeats.

Will shrugs one shoulder. "If you're not too busy," he says, and nods to the bowl of vegetable innards. "I have no opinion one way or the other."

Hannibal presses his lips together, and doesn't answer except to go back to doing whatever the Hell he's going to be doing with the insides of the spaghetti squash. Will rolls his eyes and stands, leaving both cards and water glass discarded.

"Will," Hannibal calls, and Will wants to be petulant and pretend not to have heard him – or better yet, to have heard him, but chosen to ignore Hannibal all the same – but he knows that instinct is childish before it can even form out of its infancy, let alone see the light of day. He pauses at the doorframe, sighs, and turns around.

"Yes?" he replies. Brow raised. Head tilted.

Hannibal smiles at him. "I do appreciate your company," he murmurs. Will resists the urge to scoff – Hannibal's genuine honesty was a gift hard-won, something he would do well not to discard too often, lest he suddenly not deserve it anymore. "If you would like to play later, I would be happy to."

Will hums. "Maybe," he says. "Might not feel like it, later."

Hannibal's smile widens, shows the edges of his teeth. His hands flex and flatten on the kitchen island, and Will thinks of a hunting cat settling in to watch the herd creep closer. "I was under the impression you were always eager to play games with me," he purrs, and Will's spine tightens, his shoulders roll, and he lets out a hard breath.

"Things might have changed," he replies.

"Ah, are those compartments starting to merge?" Hannibal asks, and Will's eyes narrow. "You keep looking towards the wine rack, the liquor cabinet. I wonder if I was home less often, you would be more inclined to partake."

Will doesn't like where this conversation is going. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Gloria since we…discussed her," he says tightly. "But I'm not chickening out."

"I never said you were," Hannibal replies, still smiling, the bastard. His cheekbones are flushed lightly from the heat of the kitchen, the oven warming the air. Only here, at the threshold, does Will feel even a little bit cooled off. Though the way Hannibal is looking at him is making it difficult to think straight. "Deliberate resistance is less of an issue when the unmovable object never meets the unstoppable force."

"And who's the force, here?" Will snaps. "I don't understand why you care so much. So I don't drink anymore – why the fuck should I? It doesn't change anything."

Hannibal's lips thin out, and he lets out a low, throaty sound. His lashes lower, his head dips, and his claws flex on the counter again. "I see," he says, and lifts his head and meets Will's eyes. "Well, I should get back to preparing dinner. It shan't be long."

Will turns away to hide how he winces at Hannibal's tone. "Right," he says, and clears his throat. Adds, "Thank you," quietly. Hannibal hums again, and Will sighs, wishes once again that he had a Goddamn drink in his hand, and leaves the kitchen.

 

 

He goes outside. The air is warm, oppressive from the lingering storm that fucked up his roof and sent him to Hannibal's bed. Hannibal has, for all his prodding and teasing, been a perfect gentleman in that regard – way more than Will has. Just the thought of being that close to him, for that long, is starting to create a Pavlovian response in his gut, in the back of his head where the shadow of Hannibal sits.

He runs a hand through his hair and snarls to himself under his breath, walking the short distance between the front door and the little raised wall that separates their front garden from the path leading to the house. The wall goes up to his knee, and is a pale off-white, tipped with red that matches the sides and roof of the house.

He sits on it, and there is a small dip on the other side, so his feet don't touch the path. Elbows on his knees, he puts his chin in his hands and breathes out heavily. Recalls to mind the mist of his own exhale – it was always so cold in Virginia and Maryland, even the summers felt colder than normal. And the winters were a mess of snow and blood and endless, endless nights.

Spain is warm, and brilliant, and gold. And he knows all those things are Hannibal as well; even his perception of the weather is colored by the man. There is so much, sitting so heavily on him, and it's not fair that he is arguably the freest he's ever been and feels worse-off than his weeks spent behind bars.

He sighs again, rubbing his hands over his mouth, and shakes his head like a dog ridding itself of water. "Get a fucking grip," he snarls to himself. They're both adults here, it's not like Will is a teenager trying to approach his crush. They've been through shit way more intimate than sharing a Goddamn bed, Hell, even during the time they were healing they were in far closer proximity, and this isn't…new. None of this is new, except for the fact that Will is -.

He freezes.

_A life with you is better than any other life I could live, and you make me happy, and with you, I am perfectly content. And I like to think you are happy with me._

Unbidden, Will's eyes settle on the town at the edge of the lake. The lights there flicker in and out of focus like fireflies, and he wonders if it's supposed to make him feel safe, staring down at such removed life, or if he should feel lonely.

_Do you think anyone else would see you like I do?_

Will swallows, and looks down at his hands.

_Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the mere sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?_

Ache. Isn't that the name of the game? Will sighs, scrubs his hands harshly over his face, down his jaw. He stares out, down the little mountain atop which their home perches, to the twinkling lights of the town below. Sees, beyond it, the lake, shining darkly and only visible for the halfmoon that illuminates its edges.

The half of it is a perfectly straight line, and looks unnatural, like a child's drawing. Within the lake shines its reflection, and Will stares down, and stares, and damn near jumps out of his skin when the front door opens. He turns, and in the doorway shines a halo of gold around the monster he has chosen to stay beside.

That monster smiles at him, and his eyes shine. "Dinner is almost ready, Will," he says. "If you'd like to come in and help me set the table?"

Will presses his lips together, and nods, and smiles half-cocked and weak. He pushes himself upright and follows Hannibal into the house again. His bedroom is the first door at the top of the stairs, and even as he passes the air subtly stinks of mold – he imagines it's quite a pervasive, uncomfortable smell for Hannibal – but Hannibal assures him there will be contractors coming to look at the roof within the next few days, now that the storm seems to have abated for good.

Will hovers by the door between kitchen and hallway, rests one hand on the frame, and asks, "What will we need?"

Hannibal smiles at him. "A large spoon and fork, and then just forks for ourselves, I should think," he replies. Will's brow lifts, but he doesn't argue – Hannibal's dinners usually require three sets of any kind of utensil Will could imagine, and a few more he's never heard of before. But he does as he's told, and sets Hannibal at the head of the table where he always sits, Will on his right. Two cloth placemats, 'champagne gold', whatever that means, and cloth coasters – one for Hannibal's wine, and two for a water glass each. He lays a small wooden mat in front of Hannibal's place setting so he can rest the serving dish atop it, and then goes back for plates.

Hannibal has a large bowl on the counter in front of him, and the scent of freshly-cooked meat is heavy in the air, a thick red sauce touching the back of Will's tongue, complimented by the crispness of the cinnamon and the sweet tang of raisins and dried figs. His stomach rumbles as if on cue, and Will steps up beside him and reaches for the cabinet in front of their heads, where the plates are.

"Careful," he murmurs, and touches Hannibal's shoulder to get his attention. Hannibal blinks, and rears back so Will can open the cabinet. Will smiles, takes two plates that are a dark red, and holds them up in offering. "This good?"

Hannibal swallows, and nods. "Yes. Wonderful."

Will's smile widens, and for good measure, he squeezes Hannibal's shoulder before he turns away. If for no other reason than to feel the heat of Hannibal's gaze on the back of his neck as he leaves.

 

 

Dinner is fantastic, of course. The strings of the baked squash are crunchy and perfectly seasoned, the meat rich, the sauce thick. Will quickly discovered a fondness for sweeter meat – ham with honey, lamb with mint jelly and so on. He had never been particularly crazy about candy or chocolate when he was a kid, but there is something decadent about tasting both meat and honey, or fruit glaze at the same time. And Hannibal is masterful at it.

He wolfs the first plateful down quickly, and settles in to digest and determine if he'll eat more before Hannibal clears it away, idly rotating his glass around on the cloth coaster as it soaks up the condensation. The lights overhead remind him of the moon outside, shining onto the gleaming tabletop, reflecting and refracting in his water and dark in Hannibal's wine. Hannibal is eating more slowly than Will, always the controlled and respectable one.

Will sighs.

"Hannibal," he says, and watches from his periphery as Hannibal pauses, and straightens, hand lowering so no food accidentally spills and makes a mess from his fork. "I have a problem."

Hannibal makes a curious noise, and Will bites his lower lip and keeps his eyes set on his water. On his fingers, wrapped around his glass. He needs to cut his nails.

"I think I need to talk to someone about how…I'm feeling," he says. "But I can't, because no one is going to get it. Even if I give them scraps of the truth, just enough for them to maybe offer some advice, it won't matter because they don't know the whole…" He gestures vaguely with his other hand, and sits back, and sighs.

"But," he adds, and finally meets Hannibal's heavy gaze, "I can't talk about it with you."

Hannibal doesn't move for a while, his eyes merely set on Will's and Will's on his. Two ships, circling each other and neither daring to look down into the swirling chasm they are both careening towards. Then, he purses his lips and lets out a considering sound, head back to that perma-tilt, and returns his attention to his food.

"I feel compelled to ask if you doubt my ability to compartmentalize," he says.

Will blinks, and then frowns. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and drums his nails on the table by his glass. "I don't doubt that you can," he replies, slowly. "But it's not…fair, to make you."

Hannibal smiles. The way he does it makes Will feel small.

"And if I volunteer?" Hannibal asks, lifting a brow.

Will shakes his head. "You know that's not what I want."

"You seem to have this…view of me," Hannibal says, and Will looks at him, finds his gaze thoughtful, far away, fixed on the bowl of food. "It is not quite worshipful, not quite afraid. But…momentous. And therefore, by extension, my actions bear some kind of gravity that yours do not."

Will blinks, frowns, and shifts his weight. "Kind of hard to argue otherwise," he snaps. "I feel like there isn't a single part of me now that you haven't touched, haven't altered or revealed in some way. I don't -." He holds up his hand, because he knows what Hannibal is going to say. "I don't blame you for how I am now. I know enough about myself to know that you didn't create something that wasn't already there. But the last time I tried to get you to do something you didn't want to do, you left me for dead."

Hannibal's brow creases, just for a moment. It might as well have been a cry of alarm.

"As the person causing my problem, you can't help me fix it."

"I'd argue that, as the root of your anxiety, I am the only person capable of helping," Hannibal replies coolly, in the same way ice and diamond is cool. Will's fingers twitch and he wishes he could drink something heavier than water. His skin feels too tight, stretched, and at least if he were drunk or buzzed or somewhere in between he could blame his involuntary expressions on the alcohol.

He breathes out. "We both have a history of escalation."

In the corner of his eye, Hannibal takes another sip of wine. "You're not worried about your history."

"No," Will admits, and presses his lips together, and pushes his plate away, deciding he's no longer hungry. "Not for that."

"For what comes after, then."

"I'm selfish, Hannibal," Will says, and his eyes slide over, lock with Hannibal's, and Hannibal is watching him like a big cat watches the deer – only, no, no he's not. He's watching Will like a predator watches another one. Leopards are just as capable of killing crocodiles as killing gazelles. "And you know, you know it's…"

Hannibal's mouth twitches, curls upward.

"You can't have just a taste, can you?" he purrs. Will swallows, fingers flexing. Now it feels like he's the one with claws. "Will Graham is not a man of moderation. Of the occasional indulgence."

His teeth line up, settle bottom-forward, molars grinding.

He looks away.

"Are you done?" he growls, and lets go of his water before he breaks the glass.

He can feel Hannibal's amusement, his pleasure, touching the back of his throat, the tip of his tongue like thick caramel. It coats him, heavy and warm, and Will's mouth is full, tongue thick, his chest suddenly frozen into static when Hannibal sets his wine glass down.

"I daresay, darling, we're just getting started." There's a smile in his voice and Will swallows, looks back at him, sees teeth and flexes his fingers again. He's not sure if it's the lighting, or the conversation, but Hannibal feels monstrous right now. It has been a long time since Will felt his gaze and thought it starving.

"I don't want to talk about this," he says, clinging desperately to that line, that anchor. He is once again unmoored, his foundations made of sand.

"I feel I must insist," comes Hannibal's reply, and Will breathes out again, his lungs burning. "If you are worried about needing too much, perhaps the answer is not to starve yourself, but to be rationed."

Will frowns, considers his empty plate. "Rationed," he repeats.

Hannibal nods, in the corner of his eye. "Will, look at me." Will does, unable to disobey, and finds Hannibal watching him with careful scrutiny. His lips purse, and then flatten, and he pushes slightly at his plate to give his elbows room to settle on the table, fingers laced in front of him like a child's attempt at prayer. He's close enough to touch – he's always close enough to touch. Will's fingers curl. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

Will swallows, his mouth dry. "Yes."

Hannibal smiles. "And…my touch. Do you want that, as well?"

Will's knuckles go white, a fine tremor running down his spine. "Yes."

Hannibal's head tilts. "Why?"

"Because I…" He stops, swallows, looks away. But Hannibal lets out a quiet, warning sound, and his eyes snap back – he should know better than to hide. "I want to make you happy."

"I've already said that you do," Hannibal purrs. "Immeasurably so, simply by being with me." Will swallows and nods.

"When I was outside," he says, "I saw the moon. It's half-full, and there's no clouds anymore. Not after the storm went away. And I looked at it, and saw its reflection in the lake, and I thought it would be so much better if the two halves were together."

"Are you my reflection, or am I yours?"

"Yes?" Will hazards, and huffs a sheepish laugh. "Our stars, our fates, are conjoined. From the moment we decided, together, to be together, there was never a moment when I thought I would be happier somewhere else, or with somewhere else. And the thought that you would be somewhere without me makes me angry."

"So we are orbiting," Hannibal says, and Will nods. "Gravitational." He nods again.

Hannibal straightens, and releases Will from his gaze. Will sags like his strings have snapped, and he drags his heels to rut against the legs of his chair, breathes out and runs a hand through his hair.

"How do you ration a meteor?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles, at that. "You are not a meteor, darling," he replies in a purr. "Your desire isn't to destroy me, or to be destroyed by our collision. Perhaps there is another way." His eyes meet Will's again. "A controlled descent."

"Rationed?"

"Yes." Hannibal's head tilts, his eyelids lower, his fingers flex. "What if we were to put some rules in place? Some parameters we both agreed on, to ensure neither of us were hurt when you do decide you want me?"

"I want you now," Will breathes, and snaps his jaws together, straightening. "That's not the issue."

"Don't avoid the question, Will. I won't allow it," Hannibal replies curtly.

Will swallows, and sighs. "I'm sorry."

Hannibal nods.

"What kind of parameters do you suggest?"

At that, Hannibal smiles. "Limitations, at first," he says. Will tilts his head. "From now on, you will have a glass of wine with dinner, with me. If you want more, you will ask, but I will not allow you to have more than two."

Two glasses of wine. Will's fingers flex, claws out.

"Tonight, when we are getting ready for bed, you will shower, and touch yourself until you achieve orgasm." Will's eyes flash, widen, his gut tensing up sharply. Hannibal's smile sharpens at the edges when their eyes meet. He stands, and takes Will's plate, settling it atop his own and gathering their silverware.

"What -? That's -?" Will stops when Hannibal pauses, brows raised. He clears his throat. "That's it?" he asks weakly.

"For now," Hannibal replies, with that smile that lights up his eyes. "Unless there's something else you'd like to ask for."

Will swallows, and his teeth feel too sharp. He drops his gaze and shakes his head. "No," he says, barely a breath. Hannibal still feels pleased, his air like one of a sunning cat as he takes the dishes in hand and grabs the bowl with the other.

"Good."


	3. The Buzz

Will half-expects Hannibal to go back on his order. To, after another glass of wine and some calm conversation by firelight, tell Will that he didn't mean what he said, that Will should simply perform his nightly routine and join him in bed, and they will forget about the whole thing. Will can go back to pretending, to aching, desperately in his stomach, and Hannibal will keep on keeping on, orbiting and waiting like a hunting cat pressed low to the grass.

He doesn't. Will is on edge, tense from neck to hips, jittery with anticipation he only feels right half-acknowledging. He's jerked off in the shower before – Hell, he's done it in this house before, and it had been just one of those things that you accept when living with roommates. Sometimes people overhear things, or there's just a morning where the shower takes a little too long, or the light beneath the bedroom door is on later than usual. One of those secret understandings that didn't need to be talked about.

But now Hannibal is talking about it. He's telling Will to do it, and that just makes it so much _more_. Eventually he can't fight the pull of exhaustion any longer, though he does know his hammering pulse and unsteady thoughts have kept him up later than normal. Like his subconscious has been fighting with his ego.

Hannibal is in bed when Will shows up, having gone to his bedroom long enough to dress down in a t-shirt and pair of black sweatpants that bunch around his ankles. Hannibal is propped upright, reading a book by the light of his bedside lamp, and he looks up as Will darkens the doorway. Will half-expected him to be asleep, and knowing that he's not causes his stomach to tense and his heart to race behind his ribs.

He swallows, and ducks into the room, shutting the door behind him because he doesn't like to sleep with the door open. "Hey," he rasps.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says, and he smiles in a way that doesn't move his mouth, but his eyes are bright with mirth. "The bathroom is all yours."

Will hesitates, swallows, not sure if this is surreal enough to laugh at. "You…" He stops, fingers flexing, and Hannibal merely lifts a brow and tilts his head. "Do you seriously want me to…?"

Hannibal lets him stutter for a moment, before his lips purse, and he closes his book, letting it rest on his lap. "Were my instructions unclear?" he asks, and his tone is not quite sharp, but Will flinches from it anyway, sets his teeth on their edges.

His cheeks burn, he can feel the heat of them, and he can't meet Hannibal's eyes. "No," he replies, admits in a faint exhale.

Hannibal smiles. "Good," he says, and lifts his book again, opening to his page. Will grinds his teeth in reaction, the dismissal. "Take all the time you need."

Will's fingers clench, and dig tightly into his palms. "Why are you doing this?" he demands, and takes a bold step towards the bed – it is, apparently, enough to earn Hannibal's attention again, though when their eyes meet Will feels like he is barely deigning to give it. Will doesn't like this coldness on him, this plastic veneer – he has lived for so long without it that his reaction is nothing less than deep, visceral outrage.

Hannibal's brows lift again. "What exactly am I doing?"

"Telling me what to do. Trying to…trick me, somehow. I don't know!" Will snaps, and gestures towards the bathroom. "It's not normal. You don't just tell people to go jerk off in your shower, Hannibal."

Hannibal smiles, and lets out a soft laugh. "My dear Will, you misunderstand me," he purrs, and Will blinks at him, arm lowering, caught off-guard by Hannibal's humor. Still, Hannibal shows teeth in his smile, imperfect and sharp, and Will shivers. "There are only so many private places on this property. Your room is not fit for use, and the hallway bathroom has an unfortunately thin door." Will blinks, swallows harshly, and Hannibal tilts his head. "I wouldn't expect you to deny yourself any form of stress relief, but the fact of the matter is that the scent of it is strong, and I am not willing to deal with your stains every morning."

He nods to the bathroom door. "The shower seems like the most practical solution."

For a moment, Will can only stare, and then a deep, cold knot of mortification flexes and grows spines in his stomach. He steps back like he was pushed, and feels the flush run down his neck, muffles a short, borderline manic sound behind his palm as he wipes it over his mouth. He can't hold Hannibal's gaze, and drops his eyes instead to his side of the bed. Blushes deeper, and he might never get the red out of his cheeks.

"Oh my God," he whispers, shakes his head fiercely. He's not sure if he should be laughing or running away.

He swallows, sucks in a breath, and settles for something in between, pacing the foot of the bed and saying, high-pitched and shaky; "I need a fucking drink."

Hannibal snaps his book closed, drawing Will's attention. How he can somehow still look put-together, poised and in control when he's comfortably propped up in bed and wearing a sleep shirt and arguably at his softest, Will has no idea, but this Hannibal is the same kind who offered him food and drink at his table, who pulled and poked at Will's strings and gears, wound him up and watched him go. Hannibal's control, his precision-tuned focus, spears Will where he stands.

"Unfortunate, then, that you missed the opportunity to have one at dinner," he says, gently but with absolutely no room for argument.

Will's fingers curl in, flex out. He exhales sharply and looks towards the bathroom door.

"It's getting late, Will," Hannibal adds lightly, and turns his attention back to his book. "I'd suggest you start sooner, rather than later. I'd hate for you to lose sleep over this."

Will's upper lip twitches in an involuntary snarl.

But he makes himself settle, presses his lips together and keeps his eyes on the door when he asks; "Will this make you happy?" He feels Hannibal's eyes snap to his face, and tilts his head, peripheral vision catching Hannibal, holding him in his sights.

Hannibal smiles. "Immensely," he purrs. Poking Will again, tugging the messy pile of cut strings to remind himself which one triggers which reaction. If Hannibal tugs _here_ , will he receive a snarl or a moan for his trouble? How to get _this_ hand to move, how to make Will look at him _this_ way.

And it's a challenge – Will knows it is. Hannibal isn't exactly being subtle about it.

He nods to himself, sucks in another breath, and strides through the door, flicking on the light and shutting himself inside before he can chicken out. He eyes himself in the mirror, sees that, indeed, his cheeks and neck are a deep, blushing red. He swallows, and hauls his shirt over his head, baring his chest. Lets his eyes linger, just for a moment, on the scar cut across his stomach. The one on his forehead. The one buried in the hair on his cheek.

Wonders, if he had thought about making Hannibal happy sooner, he might have been spared any of them.

Those wounds are too old to hurt now – Will thinks of them as he might remember an old song he hasn't heard since high school, as he might try to recall the specific flavor of deep-woods moonshine during a crawfish festival, or feel the rock of the ocean beneath his feet while standing on dry land.

He sighs, and opens the door to the shower. It is a square block, barely large enough for a man to stand in comfortably – there is a bath in Hannibal's bathroom as well, but it is separate, and gleams a dull bronze along one wall. The door to the shower is frosted from knee-height to shoulders, giving the illusion of privacy, though Will doesn't think it takes too active an imagination to see right through it.

He reaches in and shoves the water on, turns it to a temperature he knows will be too hot to be comfortable, and sheds his sweatpants and underwear, kicking them off to join his t-shirt by the toilet. He shivers, grits his teeth, and steps into the shower.

The water pressure in this place is, at least, wonderful. And the hot water tank is nothing to scoff at, and soon the air around him is filled with thick clouds of steam. He sighs, rubbing his hands over the back of his neck, wincing as the hot water pools in his collarbones, runs down his chest and stomach, burns on the sensitive skin of his cock and balls. He can't take it, after a moment, and moves the temperature to something more bearable.

A deep flush of embarrassment coats his skin, something that has nothing to do with the heat. He doesn't like the idea of Hannibal knowing what he's doing, of that one little not-secret being flung so suddenly into the light.

But he also knows Hannibal will know if he disobeys, and that thought makes his stomach tense up, old memory of Hannibal's disappointment echoing in his gut, on his forehead. There will always be a part of him that enjoys riling Hannibal up, that likes to see him flustered and unrefined, but there's a difference between playful anger and outright wrath and Will gets no pleasure from the latter, not when it's directed at him.

Hannibal has relocated his shampoo and shower gel from the guest bathroom to this one. Will eyes the bottles and, after a moment, sighs through his nose, and takes his shampoo, squirting a thick dollop of it onto his palm before he caps the bottle and sets it back down on the little corner shelf. Before, he'd tried to keep his scent neutral out of some wayward attempt to appease Hannibal if he was offended by Will's behavior in his bed, but now he seeks, desperately, to cover up the scent of what he's about to do. To hide behind lemon and verbena or whatever the Hell it is they put in this shit to make it smell good.

He wraps his hands through his hair, closing his eyes as lather starts to form. He takes his time, because the water really does feel wonderful and whatever space is lost in square footage is more than made up for in height, and he can comfortably stand beneath the shower spray.

When it's time to rinse, he tips his head forward and lets the water run through his hair, down his back and shoulders. His eyes open to slits, hyper-aware of the feeling of lumps of shampoo as they slide down his skin. Involuntarily, his heart stutters, he bites his lower lip as he imagines warm hands on him, testing the softness and the slick of the water.

He forces himself out of it with a hard bite to his tongue, straightens and grabs for the shower gel. Gives it the same treatment, rubbing his palms together to get a lather forming. He doesn't see his washcloth here, and figures Hannibal must have left it, which means his only option is to use Hannibal's loofa, and he can't bring himself to touch it. So, bare hands it is.

Normally Will showers with utilitarian efficiency. Unless he's using it for the precise reason Hannibal is making him right now, showers are made solely to clean oneself off, and should be done as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Living with Hannibal had forced him to slow down, both to accommodate the fact that, at first, they were both too injured to be as quick as Will was used to, and because after a while it became more of a pleasure. Hannibal's safe houses, no matter how maintained or remote, always had amazing water pressure and big hot water tanks, and without anything better to do he began to take more time, indulging in the simple joy of being warm and clean.

He runs his hands over his chest, up behind his neck, down his shoulders. The lather bunches in the dips of his skin and muscle, pools on his inner elbows, itches lightly down his spine. He tries to avoid thinking about it as anything other than a normal shower.

Tries.

Thoughts of Hannibal linger – the shower has some of his scent clinging to it from his own nighttime routine. Will purposely had waited almost an hour after hearing the shower shut off, hoping Hannibal might be asleep by the time he went to bed. A fool's hope. But it smells like Hannibal in here, and Will's brain flings images to him, things that he has never allowed himself to think about before: Hannibal, under the water, wet to the bone, his head tipped back so it runs down his face and chest; Hannibal, brushing his teeth, letting his hair fall flat and messy. He's softer at night, uninterested in his perfectly-stitched person suit, and Will's fingers clench, and ache, to feel Hannibal's hair between them. He wants to know the difference of feeling between hair gel and post-shower wetness. He wants to see where Hannibal turns pink under heat.

Will closes his eyes, blocks out the peach-tan color of the shower stall. Blocks out the gleam of bronze in the corner of his eye, the white porcelain and plastic, the sight of bubbles as they drip down and circle the little drain between his feet.

Tries, desperately, to think of anything else. There's something to be said for the purity of sensation, even without thought, but he can't bring his hands to anywhere near where they need to be to get this over with. His neck, his nipples, his hipbones, his cock, all remain adamantly untouched.

He rubs at the innards of his wrist, sighs heavily. Thinks of pretty women with wide smiles and long hair that he can wrap his fingers in. Thinks, determinedly, of blonde-haired blue-eyed beauties, golden in sunlight, stretched out over some nameless beach. Thinks of them in jewel-toned bathing suits and, though his breath catches and his fingers flex with an instinctive urge to touch, he finds the image altogether too lackluster to hold his attention for long.

In his head, he sits and watches these women, and then their equally-pretty boyfriends. A group of tall, jock-like boys hollering for a game of Frisbee or volleyball. Short hair, all cut the same, shoulders and arms bared by tank tops, or their entire upper body exposed. Thinks of them running themselves to exhaustion, glistening and fine in the sun.

Unlike the women in Will's fantasies, who were always so detailed enough they could have been real, the men have always been stencil-like. Boring, when compared to real life. Whether that was a result of his own Bible-belt repression or the fact that he found most men too cocky, too posturing, altogether too uninteresting to linger upon, he cannot say, but the fact of the matter is that over time, the men he did imagine became more and more like one particular man, and he can't even conjure any distinguishing features in strangers anymore that don't look like _him_.

Will's eyes sweep over these unimportant people in his fantasy land, trying to find one attractive enough to approach.

"I didn't figure you for such a crowded beach."

The voice sounds like Hannibal's, and Will tenses up all over. "Shut up."

He watches one of the boys grab his girlfriend, hears her shriek and beat at him playfully as he carries her to the water in a swath of red swimsuit and golden hair.

Shivers, at the sound of her screaming. His mind shifts, goes off-kilter suddenly, and that same pretty couple are now placed in a mimicry of God and Adam, reaching out to touch each other, teeth showing behind their wide smiles. The man's chest is hollow, the woman waiting and painted with red, and he has let their hands clasp – sealed them together in death.

His stomach clenches, and his hand slides down, slides in. He pushes the knuckles of his free hand against the tile and grits his teeth.

Tries to think -. Tries to -.

Alright.

He's somewhere dark, and the water turns into the pounding bass of house music, something that is a deep, deep throb in his belly. His eyes, blinded by strobe lights and filled in at the edges with darkness. People move together like snakes, here, faceless and formless and he lets one of them come for him. This man, for he is a man, and takes up all of Will's vision like a sunset, has a face that shifts between random features, nose constantly changing shape, eyes shifting through every color Will can think of.

Finally, settle, as he pulls Will somewhere dark and quiet.

High cheekbones and sharp eyes greet Will and Will groans, bites his knuckles and wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slow and overly-tight. Lets himself follow his own brain as the man in his vision who looks far too much like Hannibal presses him against a wall made of cold, dry brick. His mouth is soft, his hands clawed, and Will doesn't like how much he likes the thought of Hannibal's teeth at his neck.

This Hannibal doesn't kiss him. Will has no idea what it will feel like.

He forces himself not to think about it.

In his head, he snarls, outrage and frantic need for control rising up in him. He fists his hand in the not-Hannibal's hair, feels it crisp and too-coarse in his palm. Even his brain rejects this thing it has created, and Will doesn't know why he's surprised – after all, no one wastes their time dreaming about their favorite food when they can smell it, ready and waiting to be devoured.

At that thought, Will's chest goes tight, and his stomach clenches, low, very low. He's hard, now, the slippery feel of his own hand along his sensitive flesh making him curl his fingers, arch to his toes. He breathes out, shuddering, and stifles a whimper against his fist.

Not-Hannibal shows his teeth, and Will jerks his head savagely, sending him to his knees. Even if it's only in his head, he will not let Hannibal keep the upper hand. His mind gives him an image of Hannibal, on his knees, panting up at Will and he still looks so in control, so pleased with himself. Will snarls, shows his teeth and gets a slick mouthful of warm shower water, and brings his palm down the tile hard enough that the angle makes his fingers ache sharply.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, tugs on his cock and shoves his forehead against the back of his knuckles. His elbow nudges the temperature setting, bringing it back just the right side of scalding. Will whimpers, loses the fight with himself, bows his head and rakes his nails across the nape of his neck.

Lets himself pretend it's Hannibal doing it. One hand in his hair, tugging, one flattened over his stomach, and the Hannibal in his dreams parts his lips and lets Will fuck between them. They hide his teeth, the soft cover of falling water hiding sharp rocks. Will's knees shudder and lock, his thighs tremble as he opens his eyes, watches the slide of his blush-red cock through his fist. Imagines, instead, that it's Hannibal's mouth, that the water is his saliva, that the heat could compare.

His fingers are rougher, and he bares his teeth, lets the edge of his thumbnail scrape under the head and imagines it's Hannibal's teeth catching. He digs his nails into his own nape and groans, loudly, tries to swallow it back but can't because he's close. He's close, and the water around the drain bubbles, looks suddenly so red.

His fantasy changes, out of his control, and they are on the cliffs outside Hannibal's second home, and there's blood in Hannibal's mouth and in Will's mouth, and warm under their hands. And Hannibal looks at him like _that_.

Will thought he'd die if he didn't get a kiss, then. The thought of one more second without that man against him, the idea that Hannibal might, when all was said and done, still push him away, or try to hurt him – or, worse, that Will might try to hurt Hannibal – had been so much to bear with the saltwater and bloodlust and adrenaline.

So he'd thrown them into the ocean and tried to rid them of that choice, only to have the sea spit them out. They weren't finished with each other yet.

Will whimpers, and lets himself think of what might have happened. Lets himself feel Hannibal's hands, those warm, wide hands, so equally capable of violence and tender love. Lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that Hannibal might have touched his neck, cupped his face and lifted Will's cheek from his shoulder. That he might have clung, so recklessly and completely without shields or safeguards. That the monster that lived inside him might have burned its home to the ground and thrown itself at Will's feet, eager to simply be.

Imagines that, if he had waited just a second longer, he would know what it feels like to have Hannibal kiss him.

It is that thought, that violent, terribly sharp stab of longing that pushes him over the edge. Will comes with a low noise, biting down on his wrist as he strokes himself through his orgasm. His lashes flutter, wet and dripping just like the rest of him is wet and dripping, and he watches his come dribble and spurt out of his cockhead, watches it disappear down the drain as his cock softens.

Idly runs his knuckles below it, smearing some mess on his skin. Wonders, if he didn't try to clean it off, if Hannibal would smell it.

He swallows, and finishes his shower as quickly as he can, task finished. He doesn't want to linger over it, hopes that, maybe, Hannibal's odd command had been a one-time thing and now, curiosity sated, he'll leave Will be. Maybe he just wanted to know if Will would actually obey him. Maybe he was listening.

Will turns off the shower, dries himself off quickly, and finishes with the rest of his nightly routine; he brushes his teeth, goes to the bathroom, and, after a moment, washes his hands with the soft-smelling soap Hannibal keeps at the bathroom sink.

Whatever game they're playing, Will shouldn't do anything too drastic until he figures out the rules.

He dresses back in his clothes, rucking his fingers through his hair to try and dislodge any wayward drips, before he hangs his towel and goes back out into the bedroom. Hannibal is still awake, reading his book, and there is enough light cast by his bedside lamp that Will can turn off the bathroom light and prowl to bed.

Hannibal turns, and smiles at him, closing his book. "Hello, Will," he says warmly. Will flushes, and tries not to look at Hannibal's mouth, his hands, any part of him. He'll see too much, he'll see it all. "Do you feel better?"

Will's cheeks and neck burn, his skin over-sensitive from the heat of the shower. He trembles as he wraps himself up in his part of the sheets, tucks his fingers under his chin and lies down on his stomach, face turned away.

"No," he replies, and it is honest.

Hannibal makes a quiet sound, halfway between disappointed and intrigued. "Pity," he murmurs. "We shall have to try again tomorrow."

Will swallows hard enough his throat clicks. "Is that one of your parameters?" he asks, and doesn't like how petulant he sounds.

"You'll have to be more specific."

Will blinks, sucks in a hard breath through his teeth, and forces himself to roll over so he can meet Hannibal's eyes. Fine; if Hannibal wants to play, Will can play. This is just like cards, like chess, like any other game.

He sits up, sees Hannibal's eyes shine with mirth when he glares, and grits out; "Do you expect me to jerk off in the shower before bed every day?"

Hannibal laughs, and sets his book down. "Of course not, darling," he replies, like Will is a fool for thinking as such. "This is merely to establish a baseline, so that you don't get too worked up or taken off-guard." Will blinks at him. "We are both men of routine, Will, and I know that we find comfort in having one, despite our tumultuous year."

"So this is the new routine?" Will asks, deflating. "I drink wine with you and masturbate before bed and, what? What do you get out of this?"

Hannibal smiles. His hands settle on his thighs, spread out and innocuous. Will fights not to let his gaze drop, because that's what Hannibal wants. Hannibal's eyes are dark, reflecting no light. And then, he reaches, and Will's wrist is enveloped by his strong fingers. Hannibal lifts his hand, wrist limp, fingers curled, and breathes in when Will's knuckles connect with his mouth.

Will sees it, clear as day; blood and semen. Knows Hannibal can smell it despite the soap.

He flushes, and Hannibal's pleasure is palpable when he lets Will's hand go. It drops, useless and weighted, onto the sheets between them.

"I get the satisfaction of satisfying your needs, Will," he says, and for a moment there is something genuinely, desperately devoted on his face. The same way he'd looked at Will with Dolarhyde's blood and body between them. "And therefore, I satisfy my own."

Will swallows, presses his lips together, and dips his gaze down. He nods, and settles back down into bed.

"Okay," he replies. Then, breathing in, he asks; "Any other rules I should know about, right now?"

He can hear Hannibal smiling when he says, "No, darling, not right now."

Will nods, presses his lips together and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder like a shield. Listens, as Hannibal shifts his weight, sliding down in the bed, and the orange cover of his eyelids turns black as he turns out the light.

In the darkness, Hannibal's voice makes him shiver;

"Goodnight, Will. Have pleasant dreams."

Will hums. "You too," he murmurs, and turns, and nuzzles into his pillow. Despite his protests, he feels calmer, less frantic, his mind somewhat settled and his body eagerly letting the effects of an orgasm relax him. It isn't long before he falls asleep, and dreams of sunlight, of wildcats, and the way Hannibal's voice sounds when he's pleased.


	4. The Touch

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Will?"

"What happens if you ask me to do something I don't want to do?"

It is whispered, quietly, in the muted grey light of dawn. Will is awake, facing the door to the bathroom, Hannibal a warm weight behind him. He can feel Hannibal's eyes on his back, but refuses to turn, refuses to look. There is a strange tension in his shoulders, between his ribs – not, he thinks, unlike being bound with strings of rope. Not unlike how he imagines roasts feel before they're thrown into the oven.

But perhaps that's not quite right. Will isn't caged, he isn't penned in. Hannibal's rules are not a cage, they are not being set with obvious threat of retribution. Will doesn't honestly know if Hannibal has any punishment in mind, nor a situation that would call for one, should Will do something to displease him.

No, this is like being a wolf, set loose in a new set of woodlands and trying to figure out his own territory. The world is a wide and dangerous place, and a lone wolf will die come winter if he gets too ahead of himself. A controlled descent, yet Will is in freefall, knowing if he wants to be caught, he will have to ask.

But first, he must know where the boundaries are. What the rules are for this new game. This is not like War, this is not like chess. This is a game of their own making, and the way they play will shift as they hone the process, and Will needs to figure out how far is too far before he asks for help.

Hannibal makes a quiet sound, snapping Will's attention back to the present. "If it is a suggested parameter, of course I would expect you to voice your discomfort or disapproval. I only ask that you do so calmly, and allow me to present my case. We will listen to each other, converse, debate if need be, and reach an amicable solution."

Will breathes out, nostrils flaring. That sounds reasonable – too reasonable, he thinks, for what Hannibal is actually saying. "And what if I need more than what I'm getting?" he asks, for that is the second problem he's facing, now – Hannibal wants a baseline, probably thinking that jerking off every night will mean Will isn't out of his mind with lust, and won't act rashly because of it, but Will has never needed desperation to act rashly.

At that, he hears Hannibal laugh, like he's thinking the same thing. "Will, don't do me the disservice of pretending our intimacy is being decided on my terms."

"It's on your terms, now," Will says.

"Because you're allowing it," Hannibal replies, and Will finally rolls onto his back, sees Hannibal cast in the soft glow of the rising gun, greyed out and soft-edged. He's lacking borders in this morning hour, just like Will. "By forcing our pace into my hands, you free yourself from consequence while still maintaining all the control."

Will winces. "And you're okay with that?"

"It is hardly a consolation prize," Hannibal says, his eyes shining with amusement. He has a book in his hand, open against his thighs, but the light isn't on and Will doubts he was actually reading it. His lips purse, and he closes the book, setting it to one side when Will merely stares at him, and slouches down in bed, rolling onto his side so they're facing each other.

"I meant what I said, Will," he murmurs. He looks like he wants, so desperately, to reach out and touch Will. Will might let him. "My deepest desire, in this moment, is to find a way for you to be as happy as I am. If that means certain rules, then I readily submit to them."

"Are you really going to pretend I'm the one in control of this?" Will asks, huffing. "You're the one telling me what to do." He bites his lower lip, cheeks heating, and doesn't miss how Hannibal's eyes drop to his mouth. "When to do it."

Hannibal smiles, folding one arm beneath his head, under the pillows. It makes the muscles in his arm flex, draws Will's attention as he takes in the sight of tensed bicep, the line of muscle in his forearm. His mouth is dry, and Hannibal's other hand rests in front of him, slightly curled, veins standing out along the back of it. _God_ , to be touched by those hands. Will shifts his weight, slides his thighs together, and swallows harshly.

Hannibal hums, wets his lips, his eyes going low-lidded. "What did you think about?" he asks, voice a purr. Will's spine tenses, he wants to arch towards that voice. "Last night, in the shower."

Will swallows, contemplates, briefly, lying. But that feels like deliberately missing the point. "A woman, at first," he says. Hannibal hums, expression unchanging. "I was sitting on a beach, watching her."

"Was she pretty?"

"Of course," Will breathes.

"Did she look like anyone in particular?"

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "No. I try not to think about real people," Will says, and flushes, because that's a fucking lie. "But she wasn't doing it for me. Then I tried to think about a man." He swallows again. "He turned into you."

Hannibal smiles, eyes black, and heat curls up, low in Will's belly. He shivers, clenches his fingers up tightly and rubs his knuckles against the bed. It's not a secret, of course not – Will admitted he wants Hannibal, more than once, and Hannibal wants him. The worst-kept secret, the screaming truth, sits between them in the scant space in Hannibal's bed.

"He pushed me against a wall," Will breathes. He can't say Hannibal did it, can't give him that, because it's not true. "I put him on his knees, made him -." He swallows again, breathes out shakily, as Hannibal's eyes drop. He knows exactly what Will was going to say.

"Is that what you pictured, when you finished?" Hannibal asks, and there's little air in his voice; it's more a growl, a promise.

Will shakes his head. "No," he whispers.

Hannibal's eyes snap back up, flare with eagerness. "What, then?"

Will slides his thighs together again, biting his lower lip savagely. He doesn't want to say it. He's getting hard, spine tight and hot with arousal, and he knows Hannibal can smell it. Fuck, _he_ can smell it, like a fevered ache in his stomach. Hannibal's favorite food, just waiting to be devoured.

He closes his eyes, because he can't meet Hannibal's anymore, and turns his face into his pillow. This is too raw, too much; the bracing chill of winter digging into his skin. He needs to hide away, to seek shelter in the trees. It's more intimate than anything else, such a deep ache that Will is ashamed of it.

"Will." It's said gently, coaxing, and then he hears movement, and Hannibal's hand is gentle on his red cheek, sliding into his hair.

Will gasps, grabs his hand and shoves it down onto the mattress, shaking his head frantically. "No," he moans, but his nails cling around Hannibal's fingers, his knuckles white. "No, don't touch me." It's too much – Will's nerves are raw with sensitivity, his mind too open, too eager to soak into Hannibal's thoughts and desires. Overcharged synapses, firing, and Will needs a fucking drink, he needs to dull these senses and force them back into submission, under a blanket of snow.

He clings to Hannibal's hand, and he's warm and soft and unmoving.

Will trembles, breathes in, covers his eyes with his other hand and curls up like a wounded animal. He hasn't felt this overloaded for so long – new aches, bracing and raw, it's like he's a teenager and having his first drink of alcohol. He'll get drunk too quickly, lose his mind too fast, lacking in tolerance that will keep his head.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, and he turns his hand, laces their fingers together as Will clings to him. "I won't touch you, darling, but I need you to look at me."

Will shakes his head.

"Don't ask me to talk about it," he says.

"I won't," comes the soft reply, and Will breathes in shakily, lowers his hand and opens his eyes. Stares, resolutely, at Hannibal's chest, as his free hand flattens over his neck, like he can physically coax his heartbeat back into steady slowness.

Hannibal sighs, his thumb brushing over the wedding ring on Will's finger. "I'm not interested in pushing your boundaries, Will," he says quietly, and Will nods, because he sounds honest. "Like you said – what you want is already there. I simply wish to uncover it, to a point we're both comfortable."

Will swallows, brow creasing, and lifts his eyes. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming this entire time. Maybe he has, somewhere secret, in the cavern of his chest.

Hannibal smiles, and gives a small shake of his head. "No, darling," he murmurs. Of course not. Hannibal is masterful at doing things his way. Only Will, it seems, has ever managed to twist him into a place he cannot untwist from. Will squeezes his hand, just to test the slight give of flesh, the unyielding press of bone.

"It was kissing you," he says, before he can tell himself not to. Hannibal blinks, eyes dark. "That's what I thought about. Us, on the cliffs, bloodied and – and the way you looked at me, then. That's what I thought about."

He's almost surprised to feel a shiver run through Hannibal, a stark moment of longing coloring his face that Will feels, open as he is, speared straight through him. He burns, he burns for this man, and doesn't think any amount of alcohol could compare, and he doesn't know if it's his own emotion or Hannibal's, or maybe it's just an unending line of mirrors, reflecting and refracting each other until the originator is lost.

Hannibal presses his lips together, swallowing. The sun has risen further, coloring the air pale blue and pink, behind him, streaming in through the curtains. They get a lot of light in the morning in this room, and in the afternoon, it lights up the rest of the house.

"I need you to tell me what you want," Will breathes. Hannibal's gaze is warm, he emanates heat and strength. "Right now. Right this second."

After all, so far it has simply been about what Will wants – Hannibal, the guard and guide, but ultimately his needs are going unchecked, no matter how much he argues otherwise. Will doesn't doubt he feels a sense of pride and satisfaction in taking care of Will, but that is only one facet of him. There is another part, one that is hungry, that stares at Will as though he's starving.

Hannibal's fingers flex between his, his forearm warm beneath Will's. He hums, eyes dropping to their interlaced hands, and breathes in.

"I want you to ask for what you desire, instead of trying to manipulate me into taking it from you." Will swallows, grits his teeth, but doesn't deny it. That's what he does – he's a fisherman, to the bone, and he throws out lures and bait for the fish to bite. Hannibal is not a fisherman, though he's getting better at making an enticing lure from himself. Hannibal doesn't sound angry, though; his voice is as calm and even as ever, and he lifts Will's hand to his nose, brushing it along the back of his knuckles. Breathes in, deeply.

A tremor runs up Will's arm, unstoppable, makes his heart stutter mid-beat. His mouth is dry, _so_ dry; he aches for water. Aches for something stronger than that.

"What if I need you to take it from me?" he asks weakly, not even sure he wants to know the answer. The borders of his territory are too far away for him to see, and he's bare and shaking, agoraphobic, too exposed to the wide, wide world and all its dangers.

Hannibal sighs, and shakes his head. "Will -."

"I don't mean that," Will says, tugging his hand just enough to get Hannibal to meet his eyes. "Not that. Just…other things. Making me drink wine. Telling me what to do. As long as I'm allowed to refuse, you're not really forcing me to do it."

A hum, a small smile.

"I can't close myself off from it," Will confesses. "I can feel you, in my head, where you've always been, and it's hard to tell sometimes if what I'm thinking is a result of my desires, or yours."

Hannibal nods, his lips pressing together. He brings Will's knuckles to his mouth again, touches his lips to them, tenderly. "As a result, you feel them too fiercely," he says, and Will sighs, and nods. "Oh, Will, if I could relieve you of it, I would. I never wanted you to feel like you had to hide from me, no matter the situation."

"I know that," Will replies. That has, at least, been an unequivocal truth between them: to see, and be seen, and completely understood, they have always wanted that.

Then, something in Hannibal's eyes darkens. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, and Will sucks in a breath, blinking rapidly. Hannibal uses his hand to reach for Will again, and Will's own knuckles brush his cheek first. He turns it, lets them flatten, lets Hannibal's hand cover his.

Then, he pulls it away, shivering at the brush of warm, soft skin. Choosing to lower the barrier between himself and this man. Hannibal cups his jaw, slides back, teasing at the sensitive skin below Will's ear. His thumb touches the corner of Will's mouth, so tenderly it stings, and as he leans in, Will's hands flatten on his chest.

Not to push away, not to pull closer. Holding him upright, steady, for him to do as he will.

Hannibal leans down, and their foreheads touch. Will's mouth floods with saliva, a sharp ripple of heat running down his spine suddenly enough to make him arch, a weak, needy sound torn from behind his collarbones. Hannibal's claws flex on his neck, he's too close for Will to focus on his eyes, but he knows his lashes are low, mimicking Will.

Then, he raises his head, and pulls Will up so his lips can press to Will's forehead. Will flushes, fingers curling in Hannibal's shirt, quakes beneath him as the kiss lingers, one more second, another, and Hannibal takes in a deep, greedy drag of his scent through his nose, and Will feels the way his lungs expand with it, feels the heat and the heavy, slow beat of his heart.

Then, he pulls away, and lets go, and the moment is broken.

Hannibal pushes himself upright, and gives Will a brilliant smile. "If you need to use the shower again, you may, but you will not be allowed to tonight, if you do." Will bites his lower lip, shivering, blushing deeper at the implication that he'd be so worked up over a single kiss to need to touch himself again. Though he can't deny the want is there, burning low in his stomach like embers, waiting for new air to flare to life. "I'll make us breakfast."

Will nods again. Hannibal has to work today, and Will is going to be alone, cold and bereft. He sits up as Hannibal rises from the bed and goes to his closet to gather his day clothes.

"Hannibal," he says, weakly, and Hannibal turns to him. Will swallows, brushing a hand through his hair. Lingers, just for a moment, on the warmth where Hannibal's mouth was. He clears his throat, blushing and hating how much he feels like a child when he says, "You can do that more often, if you want."

Hannibal smiles at him, and purrs, softly, "Thank you, darling."

Will shivers, and pushes himself out of bed. He goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him.

 

 

When breakfast is done, Hannibal clears the plates and leaves them in the sink, knowing Will has happily taken up the offer to clean everything while he's out. As he dons his coat and makes to leave, he pauses, and Will tenses up, at the sink.

He looks over his shoulder. Meets Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal breathes out, heavily, the sound like a growl, and prowls over to him. Will turns fully, face eagerly turned up, and closes his eyes as Hannibal cups his neck and kisses his forehead again. It settles something in him, finding that little spark of heat amidst the cold openness of everything else. His fingers twitch by his side, and he lifts his hand, cradling Hannibal's wrist against his neck for a moment longer, begging for it to linger.

Hannibal breaks the kiss, and nuzzles the curl of Will's damp hair. He didn't touch himself in the shower, just combed water through his hair to try and tame it. He knows Hannibal knows. Hannibal's thumb drags over his jaw, sends a shiver down Will's spine, as he swallows back a desperate, soft noise behind his teeth.

Hannibal's chest rumbles; a pleased, promising sound, and he pulls away. "I'll see you tonight," he says, low, like he's promising something else, and Will's lips part around a gasp. He sighs, and nods, lungs too tight and ribs brittle.

Then, Hannibal leaves, and with him, the sun ducks behind soft clouds, making the air seem grey again. Will does the dishes, seeking something to distract him, his eyes falling more than once to the wine rack beside the fridge.

Tonight, he'll break his dry streak at Hannibal's command. He's surprised at how much that thought rattles him – it's just wine, it's not like having a glass with dinner is even the top one hundred on the list of socially reprehensible things he's done. He wonders if Hannibal will serve white – something crisp and sharp, that dries out his mouth. If he'll indulge Will's sweet tooth and give him something heavy with syrup, something that will fog up his head and dull his teeth.

Wonders which he would prefer.

He's restless, too jittery to contemplate fishing. The fish know when a man is too eager, his shaking hands will make his aim bad, make him impatient, and it will be another frustration piled onto the ones weighing his shoulders down. He thinks, briefly, about having a shower and trying to calm himself down that way, but rejects the idea as soon as it forms. There are rules, now, and Will clings to them, wants the security of the boundaries, wants to know he can buck and roar as much as he wants under Hannibal's rein, but he will stay within those boundaries, because that's what he needs.

His phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts, and he dries his hands and goes to answer. It's Gloria.

"Hola, Evan!" she says when he answers, using the name of their current aliases – Evan and Mark Baughman. She is an unapologetically buoyant woman – Will doesn't recall ever seeing her frown. When he is around her, he feels like he is touching the sun, as bright and happy as she constantly is.

That, and, mercifully, she speaks wonderful English.

"Hi, Gloria," he replies, smiling and going outside. There's a bench in their back garden, and he goes to it, sighing when the metal holds the lingering warmth of the sun. "I was meaning to call you. How are you?"

"Very good, thank you!" she chirps. "Javier says you haven't been on the lake for a while, I wanted to make sure everything was alright. Do you need anything?"

Will's smile widens, his eyes on the swaying grass, the rise of the mountain behind their house. "Yeah, I'm good, I promise. Thank you for checking in," he replies. "Actually, I was hoping to take you up on your dinner invitation."

"Finally!" she says with a laugh. "Of course, of course! We would love to have you both. Tonight?"

"I'll have to check with him, but I don't think we had any plans," Will replies. At least, none that he knows of. "I'll let you know, though. What time should we head over?"

"Eight is good," she says. Will nods – later than he and Hannibal normally eat, but that's alright. Hannibal is normally home by six, and if he does have any plans for Will, he will be able to carry them out before they have to leave. His eyes stray to the wedding ring on his finger, and he idly spins it around with his thumb, biting his lower lip. His head feels warm.

"Alright. Thanks. I'll let you know what he says," Will replies, and they end the call with warm farewells.

He checks the time on his phone – normally Hannibal has tours every hour, but they last forty-five minutes, meaning he's normally free for the last fifteen minutes. It's ten minutes to noon, so, biting his lip again, he pulls up Hannibal's phone number and calls him.

"Hello, darling," Hannibal answers on the third ring. Will sighs, smiling at the sound of his voice. "Is everything alright?"

"I spoke with Gloria," he replies, and shivers at the sound Hannibal makes – pleased, surprised. "She invited us to dinner tonight. I wanted to make sure that was alright with you before I accepted."

Hannibal hums. "Yes, tonight will suit just fine," he replies, and Will nods to himself, tilts his head back as the sun comes back out from behind the clouds, warming his face and neck. Hannibal brings warmth, brings heat, and he soaks it up eagerly like a desert in rain. "When are we expected?"

"She said eight."

Another hum. "I should be home at the normal time, provided there isn't a late tour I haven't been told about." Will huffs a laugh – it happens sometimes. Will is, frankly, amazed that the coordinator hasn't seen their dinner table yet, for how annoyed it makes Hannibal. But he's smarter than that, more patient than that nowadays. He acts as though this is their final destination, and honestly, Will is more than okay with the idea of staying here for as long as they can.

The silence lingers, for a moment, anticipatory and clawed. "Is there…?" Will clears his throat. "Is there anything you'd like me to do, before then?"

"Is there anything you'd like to do?" Hannibal replies, a smile in his voice.

Will breathes out, closes his eyes. Touches, gently, the patch of warmth on the side of his neck. His heart leaps against his fingers, and there's an echo of disappointment in his chest, because his own touch isn't nearly as satisfying.

Brazen, desperately aching, he says, "I'd like you to kiss me."

"That was going to happen regardless."

"No, I mean." Will swallows, elbows on his knees, his heart racing. "I want you to kiss me. For real. A real one."

There is another silence, and then Hannibal, over the phone – a soft snarl. "Cruel boy," he whispers, and Will shivers. "It would be my pleasure."

Will wets his lips, shivers again despite the heat. "I'll see you tonight."

"It can't come soon enough," Hannibal growls, and Will smiles, and ends the call. He breathes out, running his hands down his thighs, rolls his shoulders and tries to calm his hammering heart.

He texts Gloria, confirming their dinner for eight, and gets a smiley face in return. How the Hell he's supposed to be calm and go about his day now, he has no idea. He rises, goes back inside, and sheds his t-shirt, burrowing into the sheets and duvet covering Hannibal's bed. It still smells like him, like both of them, and Will tugs Hannibal's pillow to him, buries his nose in the soft cotton, and breathes in deeply, and tries to sleep.


	5. The Fast Track

Will wakes when he hears the door to the bedroom creak, shifts his weight and lets out a breathy sigh, eyes slitting open. He is aware of Hannibal's presence, the same way animals anticipate an oncoming storm, and as soon as it registers, his heart leaps in his chest and his stomach goes tight and tense.

He's still clutching Hannibal's pillow, tight to his chest, and he clears his throat, hearing Hannibal open the closet door to hang his jacket. Listens to the soft slide of his tie as he unknots it and drapes it over one of the little hooks. The scuff of his shoes as he takes them off. By the time Will corrects the pillows and sits up, he finds Hannibal has unbuttoned his off-white button-down, to the third button, revealing a slip of his throat. He's unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling them up to just past his elbows, his suit pants and socked feet and flattened hair making him look approachable and soft.

It must have been warm all day, because his shirt is clinging to him the way fabric does when introduced to a fine sheen of sweat. Even on the hottest days, Hannibal wears his normal suits, is always well put-together and dressed to the nines. His cheeks are flushed, a splotch of pink like blood in whiskey.

He looks, in a word, fantastic. Approachable. Will's mouth is dry.

Hannibal finishes correcting the sleeves of his shirt, shifts his weight until one knee pops in a way it didn't do before the fall, and sighs. Then, his eyes lift, and meet Will's, and they are dark, so very dark. Those storm clouds that shiver into Will's bones and make him want to lie down and wait it out like an animal in the field.

He wants Hannibal to break over him. Wants to drown. Wants to be _kissed_ until he tastes nothing but Hannibal's sweat.

Hannibal eyes him, as a fox might look for a weakness in the fence so it may prowl into the chicken coop. His head tilts. "Have you been in bed all day?" And his voice is hoarse – loquacious as he is, even Hannibal strains at the end of a long day giving tours.

Will blinks, bites his lower lip, feels sheepish as he nods. He hadn't meant to, but the bed was warm, and comfortable, and smelled like them. His gut aches with hunger but he's not sure what kind of flesh it hungers for.

His eyes drop, to Hannibal's exposed neck, and his mouth isn't dry anymore.

Hannibal's head tilts further, showing more of it – an unconsciously but so-deliberate move to entice. Hannibal is learning how to fish, and Will lets out a weak, breathy sound that isn't quite human. His fingers slide through the sheets pooled around his thighs, clench up tightly.

He feels like he should try and strive for normalcy – ask Hannibal about his day, as he always does. Offer him wine or food if Will has caught any, as he always does. Wait, longing and aching, as he always does. And yet, Hannibal's promise rings in his head, a clarion call for the wolf in Will to howl, to chase down its mate and seek shelter from the storm.

Hannibal strides towards him, confident and assured as he always is, and Will tilts his head up, gazes deep into the darkness in Hannibal's eyes. Presses his lips together and wonders if Hannibal can see how hard his heart is beating in his bare chest.

Hannibal stops by Will's discarded shirt. Bends down, to pick it up, carefully straightening it out and then folding it, before it joins the piles of sheets at the foot of the bed. Will's legs straighten, aching for a touch, but Hannibal doesn't touch him.

Steps closer, though, until he's level with Will's shoulder.

"It's been a while since you slept so long," Hannibal says quietly. His fingers twitch, hesitating to press to Will's forehead in a way he never does anymore. Will aches, he _aches_ , and wonders if it's possible to die from longing like this. Like hunger, like famine, Hannibal makes him starve.

But if he wants nourishment, he'll have to ask for it. So he reaches out, takes Hannibal's hand, presses his knuckles tight to the wedding ring around his finger and tugs.

"I'm alright," he breathes, as Hannibal's knee dips into the mattress. Will slides over to make room, pulls and breathes out heavily as Hannibal's other knee joins the first, and he's crouched by Will now, and his free hand finally obeys the unspoken need between them, pressing to Will's forehead, flattening over his flushed cheek. "Really, I'm fine."

"You haven't eaten since breakfast," Hannibal murmurs, and Will nods, sighs as Hannibal's hand falls away. "Wine will hit you very strongly tonight, if you don't have something to absorb it."

Will blinks. "You…still want me to drink?" he asks, though he's not sure why he's asking. He doesn't know why he forgot, except he does, because he's been able to think of nothing else except the other thing Hannibal promised him.

"Yes, darling," Hannibal murmurs. He settles on his heels, pulls his hand from Will's and places both on his thighs instead. His clothes, always well-fitted, stretch over the muscles in them, and Will's mouth goes dry again. He wants to taste, to bite, to see if Hannibal will break when Will sheds blood. The stark clarity of their night on the cliff has never faded. Maybe, with blood in Will's mouth, he'll look at Will like _that_ again.

Hannibal's claws flex, and then his hand lifts again, tucking under Will's chin and forcing his head up. His eyes blaze, a deep fire in them, something Will is starting to think only he can conjure. Will cradles his wrist and sucks in a breath.

"You promised me a kiss, when you got home," he says.

Hannibal smiles, wets his lips. _God_. "I did," he purrs, and tilts his head again. He slow-blinks like a sated cat in sunlight, and Will feels his fingers curl beneath his chin, until Will feels nails. His thumb lifts, brushes just beneath Will's lower lip, and Will lets his jaws part, lets Hannibal see that he's reactive, he's wanting, he _wants_ it. "I'd like to amend my promise."

Will whines, and it's a strangled sound, stuck behind his teeth.

"I will kiss you," Hannibal says, before Will can protest. "But, before I do, you'll let me kiss you elsewhere."

Will swallows. Asks, plaintively, "Where?"

Hannibal shakes his head, still smiling. "My decision," he replies. Considers, and adds, "Three times. Then, darling, you get one, wherever you desire."

If this is what it's like to be in Hannibal's claws, Will would rather die than leave them. He feels split open, gushing blood all over again, and trembles when he meets Hannibal's eyes. He sees, there, that this is another of those rules – if he wants what was promised to him, he will get it on Hannibal's terms. No less.

Something he can refuse, certainly, but to refuse the first three is to refuse the one he wants. To get the good meat, he has to step into the trap.

He swallows again, hard enough that his throat clicks, and lowers his lashes. Rubs his thumb over Hannibal's pulse.

"I accept."

Hannibal's smile is wide. "Lay back, Will," he purrs, and Will obeys with another shiver, whining as Hannibal lets go of his chin. Hannibal considers him for a moment, and then moves, and Will can't stop the quiet, desperate moan that escapes him when Hannibal spreads his knees and straddles him, warm and heavy on Will's thighs. His hands fly immediately to Hannibal's hips, wanting to grab, to rut, but Hannibal catches his wrists.

Takes one in each hand, and presses them against the mattress on either side of Will's head. He looms over Will, storm clouds swooping low, ducks his head until their noses brush, teases at Will's desire to lift his head and _take_. But he can't take, he has to wait. His stomach sinks in and his breathing is shaky.

Then, Hannibal laces their fingers, and slides Will's hands up until his knuckles touch the headboard.

He tilts his head, and growls into Will's ear, "Keep them there."

Oh, _God_. " _Fuck_ ," Will whispers, his eyes wide when Hannibal releases him, rearing back. He's sure he makes a picture, laid out and bared for Hannibal's ravenous gaze – feels, not like a work of art, but like a creature pinned beneath a bigger predator. Hannibal's smile promises all kinds of things, some of them painful, most of them Heavenly, and Will's lungs might stop working altogether; he can't breathe.

The first kiss is to his forehead. Hannibal leans down, slides both hands into Will's damp hair. He breathes in, lets it out in a soft growl, nuzzles the curls away from Will's forehead to expose the scar beneath. He kisses, softly, lingering like this morning, and Will can only see his chest, see the bulge of his strong arms, the tease of hair beneath his open collar.

He whimpers, and Hannibal pulls away. Slides back.

The second kiss is to the scar on his stomach. Hannibal kisses the very edge, below the jutting line of Will's ribs. His hands are wide and warm on his waist, keeping him down, and Will presses his thighs together, fails to resist the urge to lift up into his touch. Feels, with a sudden surge of heat, that Hannibal is hard, or at least getting there. He chokes on a breath and digs his nails into the edge of the mattress so he doesn't move.

Hannibal's jaws part, and Will feels teeth, and he tilts his head back and the sound he makes is like a growl, but weaker, he doesn't have the air for more.

Hannibal rises from him, a rumble in his chest, and Will lifts his head, panting, flushed down to his neck. Hannibal's hands slide down, beneath his torso, drag with nails until he's cupping the small of Will's back, urging him to lift his hips. He pulls back just a little further, and Will does moan, this time, when Hannibal leans down, and parts his lips, pressing a single, wet, open-mouthed kiss to Will's erection through his clothes.

He takes a deep breath in, nostrils flaring, lashes going low as he savors Will's scent. His nails flex, so obviously wanting to claw, and he growls as Will's cock twitches in his sweatpants, eager for more of that promised heat. He thinks of his fantasy, in the shower, of putting Hannibal on his knees, and even as chaste as this is, it can't possibly compare.

The kiss ends, and Hannibal's tongue drags over his lower lip, like Will is a taste lingering in his mouth. His cheeks are dark now, too, his eyes black, and he smiles, and prowls up Will's trembling body. Cups his neck tenderly, and whispers;

"Now, where would you like me to kiss you?"

Will can't breathe, can barely think. His brain is a mess of white noise, struck through with shards of red and gold. Hannibal's thighs are a warm weight on his hips, his erection pressed tight to Will's, and Will is gasping, and would be angry at how easily this is affecting him, but he can see in Hannibal, see in his tense shoulders and dark eyes, that he's affected too. Unlike before, where their desires were merging into conflicting reflections, subtly off-kilter and not quite slotted, this is symbiosis. This is perfectly aligned.

Hannibal's eyes drop to his mouth, and Will nods.

He smiles. "You may touch me, if you'd like."

Will's hands are shaking, but eager. He brings them from the mattress, grabs frantically at Hannibal, one knotted in the cuff of his sleeve, the other sliding into his soft hair. He rears up, as Hannibal leans down, one hand planted by Will's head, the other still gentle on Will's neck.

His thumb presses to Will's pulse, and Will thinks if it were a knife, with how hard his heart is racing, he would bleed out in seconds. He tightens his fingers in Hannibal's hair, breathes out shallowly, and Hannibal swallows the rest.

Their lips meet, not chaste, not at all gentle. Hannibal is teeth and conquest, pressing Will down to the bed with a snarl, weight and gravity and superior strength keeping him pinned as Will gasps and lets him do it. He's warm, fever-warm, his nails in Will's neck. Their heads tilt, locking together, and Will closes his eyes, overwhelmed by just how _good_ it feels to finally get this. Better than wine, than whiskey, than bloodshed – Hannibal kisses him like this was his singular purpose in life. His tongue behind Will's teeth, Will's own dragging along his lower lip. Will bites, and receives another snarl, whimpers when Hannibal flattens him against the bed and his entire body rolls, seeking Will.

When they part, it is only for the sake of their burning lungs, but when Will arches for another, Hannibal pulls back, and he remembers: one. He was promised only one.

But oh, Hannibal is warm, and he looks at Will like he'd eat him alive given the invitation. Will swallows, lets go of Hannibal's hair and presses his fingers to his tender mouth, and Hannibal breathes out, heavily, through his nose, wets his lips which are now pink and bruised by Will.

He let Will do that – let him bite, and clutch. Allowed Will to feel how affected he is.

He clears his throat, and presses the hand on Will's neck to the bed on his other side. A tremor runs down his spine, one that Will instantly regrets his hands were not in a place to feel, and he clears his throat, breathes out quietly through his nose.

His weight moves, abruptly, as he makes to free Will from his position. "Wait," Will says, grabbing frantically at his hips, to keep him down. Hannibal is still hard, Will can feel it – hopes, desperately, that his scent lingers in Hannibal's throat, that he can feel it, too. Of course he can. "Wait, please."

Hannibal tilts his head. Lifts his brows.

Will swallows. "I want another."

Hannibal smiles, showing his teeth. He somehow manages to look smug and affectionate all at once.

"If we're treating this like your wine," he purrs, "I believe it's up to my discretion whether I give you one."

Will's upper lip twitches, earning Hannibal's gaze. A brightening of his eyes; anticipation.

"It's not like wine," he says. "Wine can be consumed in solitude, or in groups." Hannibal huffs a laugh, and Will lifts his chin. "Takes two to tango, isn't that what you said?"

"I did," Hannibal replies. He sits up, but makes no move to leave. "What do you suggest?"

Will doesn't know, he doesn't _know_ what he wants – except he does, he does, but this morning's episode has left him shaky and unmoored, and the way Hannibal is looking at him now makes him want to snap his teeth, hackles rising.

His eyes fall to Hannibal's neck, sees it flushed, sees the flex of his tendon as he tilts his head.

"You kissed me," he says. Flexes his hands on Hannibal's hips. Licks his lips, and breathes in; "I want to kiss you, now. Wherever I want."

Hannibal's smile is wide, pleased to the bone like watching a dog learn a new trick.

"A glass for me, and a glass for you," he purrs.

"Makes us equals, doesn't it?" Will replies, challenging now. Hannibal is learning to fish, but that means Will must learn to hunt, and he's nothing if not adaptable.

Hannibal's eyes flash, gleaming with mirth. He hums, presses his lips together, and pets through Will's hair, tugging just a little, until Will's lashes flutter and he sighs.

"One kiss, darling," he murmurs. "Make it count."

Will smiles, shows his teeth, and sits up. Hannibal straightens to make room, subtly shivering as Will's hands slide up his flanks. Test the give of his shirt, which held sweat in it from high noon but has since cooled in their home. Feels it give under his nails, hinting at Hannibal's strong shoulders, his broad back, the sharp flex of his ribs. Hannibal ducks his head down, as Will looks up, sagging against Will and cupping the back of his head.

Will waits, until their lips are almost touching, and then he grins, and bows his head. Noses at the collar of Hannibal's shirt and uses his hands to tug it back, revealing his neck. He parts his lips, closes his eyes, and feels Hannibal tense as he kisses over the soft skin, just shy of his Adam's apple. He wraps his arms around Hannibal, yanks him close until Hannibal has no choice but to feel all of Will, feel his warmth, feel that Will is strong, too, and he can give just as good as he gets.

Hannibal growls, and Will pulls his lips back, and bites.

He sinks his teeth in, until he feels blood vessels burst, feels tender muscle ache and spasm between his teeth. Locks his jaw when Hannibal tugs on his hair, until it becomes not a choice of submission, but complete surrender. Will's nails dig into his back, cling to him, his hips rolling as Hannibal gasps, and his arm goes around Will's shoulder, flattening to the nape of his neck.

He leans down, and snarls into Will's ear, and in answer Will sucks the trapped piece of skin between his teeth. Until it blossoms for him, blooms for him, until he knows there will be a mark left behind and Hannibal's hand in his hair pulls with more than just a warning.

He lets go, manages to lick over the mark before Hannibal slams him down. His eyes are wild, his mouth curled in a snarl, and Will smiles back, unrepentant, alight with victory. Hannibal's hand slides to his throat and presses, just a little, instinct and diet training him to viciously stamp out any threat to himself.

Will tilts his chin up, gentles his hands. Waits, to see if Hannibal will finally take whatever it is he wants from Will.

Hannibal's hand loosens, enough that threat turns back into warning. His nostrils flare, and he lets go of Will's hair, lifts his hand to thumb at the bruise Will left on his neck. Collars will hide it, of course, Will isn't stupid, nor does he have any desire to put his work on display.

No, it's all for Hannibal. Always has been – he will see it when he's bare, and know Will managed to get his teeth in him. He will feel it, throbbing tenderly in rhythm with his heart. He will experience the echo of pain whenever he turns his head, but this is something just for them.

A sentiment that, Will senses, when he does break – for he will, he will, it's as certain as the tides now – Hannibal will not share. He's always had more of a penchant for artistry, and thirsts for an audience. When Hannibal gets his teeth in Will's neck, he will not be chaste, and he will not be coy.

Hannibal's chest rumbles with another snarl, and he cups Will's chin and forces his head back. Rears over him, so all Will can see is Hannibal.

"Forgive me, darling," he says, low and rough and so, so dangerous, "but I don't believe our agreement had teeth."

Will smiles, showing his again. "There's always teeth when you're involved," he replies, surprised but pleased at how hard it is to speak with the aftermath of Hannibal's hand around his throat. His bite didn't break skin, of course, but he can see the dark edges, pink welts from his teeth forming around the bruising middle. A suck-kiss. An unhinged, undeniable mark of possession.

"Mm." Hannibal's eyes narrow, black, pupils large.

"You kissed your marks on me," Will murmurs. "You wanted to remind me they were there. Seems only fair I get to leave some of my own."

Hannibal's brows rise, at that, a brief flicker of humor warming him. "Quid pro quo, I suppose," he says. Then, he smiles. "Cunning boy. You are truly beautiful in your unravelling, Will."

Before Will can answer, Hannibal climbs off him, and the room is suddenly so cold. Will sits up, breathing hard and rubbing absently at his neck, as he watches Hannibal unroll his sleeves, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"The day was warm. I intend to shower," Hannibal replies mildly. "Then, I will make you something small to eat, so you aren't completely useless when we go see Gloria."

Will nods. His eyes are gluttonous, taking in the baring of Hannibal's collarbones, the spread of hair on his chest. He swallows, his eyes following the natural line downward, and he growls when he sees Hannibal is still hard – despite his reaction, he liked Will biting him, that much is clear. Will's hands curl in the sheets at either side of his hips.

"Hannibal," he calls, and Hannibal lifts his head, shirt hanging open but still clinging to his shoulders. Will smiles, feeling savage. He's found one of the borders of his territory, and needs to mark it. "I don't want you to touch yourself in the shower."

Hannibal blinks at him – for a moment Will expects him to deny the intention. But he doesn't; he's never been ashamed of things like that. His head tilts, and he smiles at Will like one might a joke he's heard before. "Oh?"

Will shakes his head. Refuses to break his gaze.

Hannibal blinks again, realizing he's serious. His lips purse. "And why not, may I ask?"

"You lay claim to everything I am," Will says. "Everything you made me. I'm doing the same."

Hannibal hums, and lifts his chin. There's a gleam in his eye that is undeniably pleased, despite his protests.

Will smiles. Says what he knows Hannibal has thought, many, many times before; a deep, dark secret that screams between them across eons and all of space. "If you want me, you'll obey."

Hannibal's eyes flash, his lips twitching in a sharp smile. He ducks his head, and spreads his hands out in a small bow.

"As you wish it."

And with that, he goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Will breathes out, pets over his jaw with shaking fingers, slides his hands down his chest, sighs again and tries to will away his own erection, tamp down the heat that has built a solid foundation in the base of his spine.

He may be unmoored, but Hannibal is cliffs and stone; he will not float away, chained and bound as he is beneath his monster's claws.

He grabs his folded t-shirt, shrugs it on, and pushes himself out of the bed as he hears the shower turn on. The clock on the nightstand tells him it's just past six thirty, which means he has plenty of time to rinse off, change, and eat before they leave for Gloria's.

He is smiling as he does this, and hums a soft tune as he dresses and hears Hannibal go to the kitchen, preparing them a snack. When he goes down, he finds Hannibal with an offering of goat's cheese, agave syrup, and some crackers. A sweet, syrupy amuse-bouche.

He takes one, slathers on cheese and dips it in the syrup, eating it whole as Hannibal watches. He's dressed in another suit, this one black to combat the chill that comes with sunset, Will in a pair of slacks and a button-down the color of storm clouds. Hannibal's collar hides his mark, just as Will knew it would.

He meets Hannibal's eyes, and gestures to the plate. "Hungry?"

"Ravenous," Hannibal replies, and he's not talking about food. Will's smile widens, and he eats another cracker, sating the sharp stab of hunger in his own gut.

"Don't worry," he purrs. "I'll see you satisfied."

Hannibal breathes out, the sound closer to a growl than anything else. He prowls to Will, takes him by the neck and kisses him, fiercely, licking the syrup from his mouth. He pushed too far, Will thinks, and now Hannibal is taking liberties.

But that's alright. It's easier to mark territory with a teammate.

"Cruel boy," Hannibal rasps against his lips. Will smiles, and touches him in turn. Presses, with his thumb, over where the bruise lies. He pushes the plate away, and Hannibal's eyes fall to it, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching so hard it bulges at the corner.

He lets Will go, and Will steps back, taking his coat from where it's draped over the back of a chair. "Shall we?" he murmurs.

Hannibal nods, and smiles sharply. "After you."


	6. Wine Turns Into 'Why Not'

Gloria's house resembles theirs in the same general aesthetic – pale walls, red-tiled roof – though it's taller, squished between two other homes with a modest front yard filled with flowerless greens. The night clings to the lingering warmth of the sun, and Hannibal has a hand on the small of Will's back, subtly guiding him to lead the way up the three steps to the front door.

Will rings the doorbell, and turns to fix Hannibal with a smile. His eyes haven't lightened a shade since their kiss in the kitchen. They drop to Will's mouth immediately when he turns. "Javier's her husband," Will says, and hears from within a call in Spanish for someone to answer the door. "She has three kids, but I think only one of them lives with her right now."

Hannibal nods, filing away that information, since it is new to him. The door opens, bathing them in warm yellowish light. It's a young woman who answers, her long, straight black hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes big and brown as she blinks at the two of them.

Then, she smiles. "Hello!" she says. She's around fifteen if Will had to guess – he never asked Gloria her daughter's specific age. She gestures for them to come in with a little bow and a frantic wave of her free hand, and Will smiles, ducking his head and stepping inside. She takes their coats and hangs them on a coat tree behind the door. "Mama! The Baughmans are here!"

Gloria emerges from the kitchen in a cloud of steam, wiping her hands. She's a petite woman, the spitting image of her daughter, and she greets them with a wide smile. "Evan!" she coos, and pulls Will into a hug immediately. He laughs, and embraces her with one arm, before she pulls back. "And you must be Mark. Pleased to meet you."

"And you," Hannibal replies, as friendly and welcoming as he always is to new friends. He shakes her hand with both his own, and kisses her knuckles. Her eyes brighten with amusement and happiness, and she winks at Will. "Thank you for inviting us over. It smells delicious."

Gloria beams. "I'm making paella. An old family recipe," she replies with a chirp. She throws the towel over her shoulder and gestures for them to come into the middle of the house, to a small dining room that is intimately lit with low lights, the table dark and shining and set for five. "Sit!"

Hannibal takes a seat at the right side of the head of the table, Will beside him.

"Have a drink! I have Rioja, or _agua de Valencia_ , and rum, and…"

Will winces, internally, and looks to Hannibal for guidance. He's barely going to be able to handle wine, let alone anything stronger.

Hannibal's eyes shine with amusement, and he places a calming hand on Will's knee, beneath the table. At least, Will assumes it's meant to be calming. His heartbeat tics up a few paces, and he shivers.

"Rioja sounds wonderful," Hannibal says.

Will nods, and smiles. "For me, too."

Gloria nods, and looks to her daughter. "Isabella, por favor," she says, and the girl – Isabella – nods with a smile, and leaves the room to retrieve their drinks. "And some for me, mi amor!"

She returns shortly after with three generous glasses of wine, and sets them in front of Will and Hannibal, and then hands the third to her mother. She has a glass of orange juice for herself, and sips at it.

"Javier should be here in a while," Gloria says, sipping her wine. Will spins his own glass idly, unable to take his eyes away from the dark red of it. He thinks of bloodshed, thinks of how Hannibal looked with it staining his mouth. He shivers again, feeling Hannibal's eyes on him. "He's missed you on the lake, Evan."

Will smiles, pressing his lips together. "Unfortunately the storm last week knocked some tiles from our roof," he replies, meeting her eyes. It's not a lie, of course not. "I've been staying home, trying to get it manageable until we get someone to come fix it."

Gloria hums, nodding with sympathy. "It was a terrible storm," she says. She drinks readily from her glass, smiling at the taste. Behind her, something beeps from the kitchen, and she sets her glass down. "Come, mi amor, it's ready."

She and Isabella leave, and Will sighs, setting his eyes on his wine again. He wants to taste. He doesn't want to taste.

"Will." Hannibal's voice cuts through the haze in his brain, and he goes rigid, and doesn't look at him. "Drink."

It's a command. Will knows that. He winces. "It's not dinner yet," he replies tightly, shoulders tensing when Hannibal lets out a quiet, displeased sound. "Shouldn't I wait?"

Hannibal's claws flex on his knee, sliding up, and Will gasps, pressing his thighs together. They still remember the heat, the weight of Hannibal over them. His mouth is dry, he tries to wet his lips but it doesn't do much.

"Will," Hannibal says again, softer now. "It would make me very happy if you were to take a drink."

And Will aches to make Hannibal happy. Needs it, like food or water. He breathes out, closes his eyes, and slides his glass towards the edge of the table. Wraps his fingers around the stem, and lifts it to his nose. Breathes in, and opens his eyes, slanting his gaze to one side to see Hannibal mimicking him.

He tilts the glass, parts his lips. Rioja is a sweet wine, can almost taste like juice from some places, and it coats his tongue like syrup, sweet and rich and flooding his mouth immediately. He drinks, and Hannibal does, and then he rights the glass and sets it down again. Hannibal does the same, and his fingers gentle on Will's thigh.

"Good," he purrs, as Will gasps. "Good boy." A small pause. "Take another."

Will obeys. Hannibal watches him, his eyes on the flex of Will's throat, his bare neck, sliding up to watch his cheeks color with a flush. Will was never a lightweight, but after so long dry, the wine fogs his head immediately, loosens his shoulders. He can feel Hannibal's rein slacking, allowing him freedom to move his neck, lets him draw in a shaky breath and all he can smell is the wine.

"I can't have two," he says, and sets his glass down, pushing it away. He shakes his head. "I can't."

Hannibal nods, beside him. His fingers are curled around his wine glass stem, his face carefully neutral. "Very well," he says, "but if Gloria offers you a second, it would be very rude to refuse her."

Will winces again, setting his teeth on edge. He burns, the wine coursing down his throat, settling in a bloom of warmth behind his heart. He lowers his other hand to beneath the table, takes Hannibal's between white-knuckled fingers and squeezes tightly.

"You're enjoying this," he accuses without heat.

"I'm enjoying fine wine, the promise of excellent food, and good company," Hannibal says with a smile. "A dinner with my husband and his friends."

Will swallows. Somehow hearing Hannibal _say_ the word 'husband' hits him harder than wine ever could. Of course, to call themselves anything else would be a misnomer at best, a bald-faced lie at worst. He can't remember Hannibal ever referring to him as such, not when he's in the room.

Hannibal notices. Naturally.

He lifts his chin. Another border, ready to be marked.

Gloria reappears with a giant iron skillet, the handles wrapped in towels to protect her from the heat, and Hannibal's hand withdraws from Will's thigh. At the same time, the front door opens again, and he sees Javier divesting himself of his coat. Isabella runs to him, jumping into his arms, and Javier laughs, spinning her around.

Will thinks of Abigail, and swallows, and drinks more wine without being told. Sees Hannibal do the same. Maybe he's thinking the same thing.

Old wounds, too old to reopen, but they hurt all the same.

The paella smells as good as it looks – a hearty offering of long yellow rice, thick with tomato pieces, split clams and long stretches of cooked rabbit. Will can see the shards of parsley, breathes in the paprika, and his neglected stomach rumbles.

"This looks wonderful," Hannibal says with a charming smile. Javier comes into the dining room and greets Will with a fond shoulder squeeze, before he goes to his wife, kisses her cheek to cheek, and takes his seat at the head of the table, next to Hannibal. Gloria is on his left, and Isabella sits opposite Will.

She offers her father an opened bottle of beer, and they all settle. Then, Gloria takes her family's hands and closes her eyes. Will presses his lips together, darting his gaze towards Hannibal, finds him looking at them with an air of amusement, but acceptance.

He takes Javier's other hand, then slides his own into Will's, and Will reaches across and takes Isabella's offered one in a light grip. Gloria says the prayer, softly and in Spanish, and they part from each other with soft 'Amen's. Hannibal doesn't let Will's hand go, but settles it beneath the table, on his own thigh this time.

"Evan, it is good to see you, my friend," Javier says after drinking from his beer, as Gloria stands and begins to serve hearty portions of the paella into white, ceramic bowls. "The fish have not been so happy biting for me. I miss my good luck charm."

Will laughs, and takes his bowl when it's offered. "I'm sorry, my friend. I will have to visit the lake more often."

"And you?" Javier asks, gesturing to Hannibal with his fork. "What do you do?"

Hannibal smiles. "I give tours up at the castle," he replies.

Javier blinks, brows rising. "In Spanish?" he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. "Unfortunately, of all the languages I know, Spanish is not one of them," he replies, taking his own bowl with a grateful nod when Gloria hands it to him. He doesn't eat right away, waiting until everyone is served.

Gloria grins, and sits down after serving her family. "Evan is learning," she says with a wink. "Perhaps he will teach you!"

Hannibal goes still, beside him, and Will feels his fingers curl for just a moment. He looks Will's way, eyes bright with intrigue, a smile on his face. Will flushes, looking down, and takes a bite of rice. "And here I thought my husband kept no secrets from me," he says, playful for their audience, but Will shivers at hearing that word again. Hannibal's smile is wide. "I took him to Italy, for our honeymoon. He showed no interest in learning the language."

Will raises a brow. Hannibal is not _seriously_ considering Florence as their honeymoon. He stifles a laugh. "Should I have?" he answers, and Hannibal tilts his head. "Maybe I just like hearing you in other languages."

Hannibal's eyes flash, his throat flexing as he swallows. Will's gaze drops, and he wonders if Hannibal feels the burn of his bite along his neck. His smile widens enough to show teeth.

"Still," Hannibal says, clearing his throat and squeezing Will's hand, "I think we would both benefit from some practice."

Gloria makes a sound, grinning at them with both hands clutched to her heart like she's watching two adorable animals play together. "Well, let us know if you would like any help! It is always good to learn new things and try new experiences."

Hannibal smiles at her, and takes a drink of his wine. Will mimics him. "I couldn't agree more," he purrs, and Will's spine rolls with another shiver of anticipation.

 

 

Dinner goes off without a hitch. Will forces himself to drink the first glass of wine, and the second, though he refuses the third, much to Hannibal's pleasure and delight. It hit him hard, even with the heavy weight of the rice in his stomach, and he's definitely buzzing, on the way to drunk, by the time they say their 'Goodbye's, shoulder their coats, and head home with a promise from Will to meet Javier on the lake as soon as he can, and Hannibal asking for Gloria's recipe so he can learn to cook the paella himself.

Hannibal takes his arm as they walk back up the mountain, and Will smiles, allowing himself and his wine-addled brain the pleasure of nuzzling his shoulder, sighing whenever Hannibal turns his head to kiss his hair. This is…nice. This feels _good_ , and easy, and in this moment Will has no idea why he resisted it for so long.

Until they reach their home and get inside. Hannibal peels off his coat first, then Will's, and guides him gently but firmly towards his bedroom. Will's shoulders flex, and tighten under Hannibal's hands, his knees start to shake as they cross the threshold and Hannibal closes the door.

He swallows, turns to meet Hannibal's dark eyes. He can't hold them for long – drops his gaze to Hannibal's mouth, but that's just as tempting. Then, to his neck, and he shivers at the reminder of the bruise, sitting hidden away like a secret beneath his collar.

Hannibal smiles at him, and reaches out. Stops, when Will flinches.

"I don't know if I should let you touch me right now," he confesses, aching, aching. "Not skin to skin."

Hannibal makes a quiet sound – not angry. Considering. His eyes flash to the bathroom. "Very well," he says, like this is simply another request, like Will asking him to make coffee or pick up milk on his way home from work. He unbuttons his collar and shrugs off his jacket.

Will swallows. "Do you want me to take a shower?" he asks. "Like…like last night?"

Hannibal nods. His lips purse, and he tilts his head. Then, he shakes it, decision made. "Perhaps a bath, instead," he suggests, and Will winces, looking down at his shaking hands. "But you will allow me to remain with you." Will's eyes snap up, and widen. Hannibal's smile is sharp. "I'd like to watch."

His head is swimming, his mouth is dry. His fingers flex, and he shivers. "You want to watch me take a bath."

Hannibal nods. His lips part, allowing Will to see his tongue as he wets them, and then he sucks in a breath. "You will let me touch you, or you will let me watch you," he says, that same command that told Will to drink his wine. His stomach clenches, his heart throbs in his chest. "That's the decision tonight, darling."

Oh, _God_. Will presses his lips together, rubbing a trembling hand over his mouth. He breathes in, still tastes wine and meat on his tongue. Then, he nods, and turns towards the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes.

"Alright," he says, without looking back.

Hannibal doesn’t follow immediately. He gives Will time to fill the big bronze tub with water just shy of scalding, waits, even, until Will fills it with sweet-smelling soap, pomegranate and orange, and then he climbs in. The water feels heavenly, too-hot just as Will likes it, and covers him to his neck when he settles in with a sigh.

He hears Hannibal enter, slits his eyes open and watches him approach the bathtub. His lips part as Hannibal kneels on the edge, his arms folded, bared under his t-shirt. Will can see the edge of the bruise on his neck. His eyes rake down Will, like he can see past the bubbles, and he hums, dropping his hand into the water and swirling it around.

Will's thighs tense, his heart hammering like it wants to fly out of him and curl into Hannibal's palm. He flattens his hands over his hips, sinks down a little more in the water.

Hannibal meets his eyes, and smiles. The heat from the water is making his cheeks flush, and his pupils are large like a cat waiting to pounce. "Whenever you're ready, darling," he purrs, and Will blushes, bites his lower lip.

He can't make himself look away – isn't sure he even wants to. He likes the idea of Hannibal watching him. Hannibal is looking at him like he did when they shared that moment, Dolarhyde between them; the final strike.

It's heat, visceral and piercing. Will is shaking as he wraps a hand around his cock. Pictures, again, how Hannibal had looked that night. Even shot, even weakened, he was a beast of conquest. They hunted together, lured their quarry in for the final trap. His cock twitches, filling in his hand as he sees Hannibal's jaw clench, his nostrils flare.

"Can you smell me?" he whispers.

Hannibal nods, lashes fluttering in a slow blink. He takes his hand out of the water, skin shining with it, and sets his arms on the side of the bath again. Will swallows, mouth dry. He wants to lick Hannibal's fingers clean.

He drags his other hand up, claws through his stomach until he finds the scar, then across, where he's sensitive on his hipbone. He doesn't think of pretty women, or men – his thoughts are, as always, fixed on Hannibal. Hannibal, smiling and pleased when he offered Will food and watched him eat it, knowing what it was. Hannibal, cold with fury, ripping out another man's throat while Will gutted him. Hannibal, his eyes shining after Tobias Budge.

In the gallery, looking at Will as though he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

His head is swimming, and he can't fight back the soft groan he makes, tilting his head back to show his neck, lashes fluttering as his stomach burns with arousal. The heat of the water is overwhelming, digs its nails into him. His hips lift, cock chasing the tightness of his hand, and he whimpers.

"What are you thinking about?" Hannibal's voice calls to him, floats across the careening ocean. He's a lighthouse in the dark, safety and security. Will wants to rush to him.

"You," he breathes. "Always you."

Whether Hannibal is pleased or placated by that, he doesn't show it. Will whines again, gritting his teeth, rolls his head to one side so he can see Hannibal's eyes again. His cock twitches, leaking – he's already close.

Hannibal's upper lip twitches. His nostrils flare.

His eyes burn into Will's, unblinking, and Will sucks in another harsh breath, lifting his hips into his hands, bites his lower lip and moans loudly as he turns his attention to the head of his cock, squeezing tight. The sound, it seems, is too much for Hannibal – he growls, and his eyes flash with hunger.

"May I kiss you?" he says, too softly for how badly Will feels he wants to do it.

He grits his teeth, shakes his head. "No," he growls, watches as Hannibal's lips thin out. "Not yet."

"When?" Hannibal asks, already leaning forward.

"Not _yet_ ," he snaps, shivering despite the heat of the water. Hannibal's fingers flex on the edge of the tub, and he shows Will his teeth. Oh, those teeth. Will swallows, bares his neck, drags his nails up to it to claw at the side of his throat. He trembles, legs stretching out, and sinks down another inch in the water until it touches his chin.

He pushes up with another surge, gasping. How Hannibal's presence feels hotter than the water, he can't say, but it does, lighting up his brain and he's sinking, he's sinking into that whirlpool, and suddenly can't breathe.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, tightening, bearing down. He drags his fist down his cock and back up, and gasps. "Now."

Hannibal surges forward immediately, cups his neck and holds him tight against the edge of the tub. "Don't look away," he demands, and Will's eyes snap to him, hold. He gasps again, and it's that spark, that subtle scream of _danger_ that is Hannibal's hand around his neck, that sends him over the edge.

He comes with a ragged moan that Hannibal swallows. There's teeth, and tongue. Hannibal kisses him deeply as Will shakes, water swirling around his thrashing body as he works himself through it. He lifts his other hand, grabs tightly at Hannibal's hair, kisses him back with all the fervor of a man reunited with his lost love after being sent to war.

Hannibal's hand slides up to his jaw, cups him tenderly as his kiss softens, but does not stop. Will receives another, and another, until his shaking calms and he's breathless for an entirely different reason. He releases his cock, shivering and sensitive, and digs his nails into Hannibal's forearm, holds him there. Wants, desperately, for this never to end.

But end it must, if only to pull air into their starving lungs. Hannibal rests their foreheads together, his breathing heavy. "Beautiful," he whispers, as ragged as Will said the word on the edge of the cliffs. He lifts his eyes, lifts his head, seeking another kiss that Hannibal eagerly grants him, petting his damp hair from his face.

He smiles. "So are you," he says. Hannibal is utterly still, now, held on the knife-edge. Will's eyes drop, and he can see Hannibal is hard, now, his pajama pants tented obscenely. His mouth goes dry again.

Hannibal pulls back, and Will sits up, reaching for him and uncaring for the water dripping onto Hannibal's clothes, onto the floor. Hannibal stills again, growls, meeting Will's eyes.

"Touch or watch," Will says hoarsely. "Your decision."

Another snarl. Hannibal's wet hand finds its way into his hair again, tugging until Will's eyelids droop. He shivers, biting his lower lip, and Hannibal stands until Will's eyes are almost level with his erection. He holds Will there, caught in a semi-curve, and Will gasps as he reaches below his clothing with his other hand, his eyes fixed on Will.

Will can see the flex of his knuckles, the shape of his fist through the clothing. He doesn't take himself out, merely working his wet fist over his cock in a strangely juvenile gesture, like a teenager trying to jerk off under the blankets before his parents come home. His jaw bulges, and this close, Will can smell him.

Hannibal's eyes flash, so, so dark, and he breathes out heavily through his nose, tilting his head up so Will can see the mark he left, see the flex of his throat. Will moves to his knees, perched awkwardly in the tub, Hannibal's hand in his hair making him unable to sink to his heels. The water swirls around him, still hot, and now it feels scalding, feels like too much. Or maybe that's just the heat inside himself – heat Hannibal alone seems able to conjure.

Hannibal moans, baring his teeth as Will gazes up at him, and Will is caught. Hook, line, sinker, wrapped up in the implicit dynamic of being on his knees, watching Hannibal touch himself. Not allowed a touch, not allowed a taste. A spectator once again.

"Hannibal," he whispers, but doesn't know what else he might say. He wants to taste – wants it more than wine, more than whiskey, but doesn't know how he'd react to it. The thought of Hannibal flooding his mouth isn't unpleasant in itself, but his throat remembers the violation of the feeding tube, and aches with sweet wine.

So he reaches, and cups Hannibal's fist with his own. Looks up and breathes, raggedly; "Please."

Hannibal lets out a hard noise, his hand flexing in Will's hair, and abruptly pulls him forward. Will's forehead meets his hip and Hannibal pulls himself out, grunting as he strokes himself and, with a sudden burst of heat, spills over Will's back. Will gasps, shaking, and cannot take a breath without smelling Hannibal. He turns his head, nuzzles into the damp knot of clothing between their hands, shivers as another warm, thick trail of come spreads down his shoulder, over the old mark he got on the force, over the exit wound of Chiyoh's bullet.

Claiming his other marks – the ones Hannibal did not make.

Hannibal pulls back when he's finished, corrects his clothes and releases Will's hair. Will sinks down into the tub, gripping the edge harshly as the strength in his thighs gives out. His back is slick, Hannibal's come crusting in the water, and he lifts a shaking hand to his hair, feels the flattened place where Hannibal gripped him.

He lifts his eyes, and swallows at what he sees. Hannibal looks wild – not sated in the slightest by his orgasm. He's breathing hard, flushed, hair flat to his forehead, and his fingers curl by his sides like he might haul Will from the bathtub and take him to bed, touch him until every inch of Will is bruised.

Then, Hannibal presses his lips together, and crouches down, taking Will's head in both hands. Will sags into the touch, feeling suddenly so heavy under the weight of his gaze. Hannibal kisses his forehead and does not smile.

"Finish your bath, darling," he murmurs, and Will nods. "I will shower when you're done." He stands, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Will breathes out, his claws flexing on the side of the tub, and sinks into the heated water with a shiver. Ignores the slick against his back, or tries to. Can't. It almost feels like blood except for the thickness.

He closes his eyes, presses his lips together, and slides down until the water rushes over his head.

 

 

Will waits until Hannibal has showered, and climbed into bed, turning off the light, before he speaks.

"Hannibal?"

He receives a shift of weight and a soft sound of acknowledgement in answer. He is gentled, now, whatever predator stared at Will in the tub tucked safely behind bars once again.

Will's fingers curl against the mattress. He's lying on his side, facing away. Wonders if Hannibal can smell his own come still clinging to Will's back – Will tried to bathe as best he could, but a small part of him rebels at the idea of rinsing Hannibal's mark off him completely. Maybe Hannibal is training him to like it, to want it.

"With these…other men you've been with…" Another sound, softer this time. Will winces. "Did you, ah, I mean." He winces again – there's no delicate way to put this. "Which one of you was the woman?"

Hannibal huffs, amused. "The point of sleeping with a man is that there wasn't a woman, Will," he replies, like Will is a child who just mispronounced a new word.

"You know what I mean."

Hannibal moves behind him, and Will knows he's being watched. "It depended on the person," Hannibal says, too-slowly, too-carefully. "Why do you ask?"

Will swallows, turns his face into the pillow. "Just wondering if you had a preference, I guess."

Hannibal laughs, and says, "Pleasure is pleasure, Will, no matter how it's given or received." Will nods, idly, and looks down at his knuckles in the darkness.

Tenses, as he feels Hannibal roll in their bed again. The heat of him comes closer – not touching, yet, but Will feels his exhale on the back of his neck. "I could understand why the idea of being penetrated is an uncomfortable one, for you," he says.

But Will has been penetrated. Mind, mouth, forehead, stomach. Even the bullets that fucked up his shoulders. He shivers.

"I feel you inside me anyway," he murmurs, hears as Hannibal's breath catches. His hand skates, feather-light up Will's flank, before moving away, remembering his manners. Will rolls onto his back, finds the shine of Hannibal's eyes in the darkness. "Everywhere. Every nerve ending, every beat of my heart, every thought I have, you linger on it." He doesn't call it a stain, or a smell – it's not unpleasant, just a truth.

He takes Hannibal's hand, the one with his wedding ring, and places it to his own stomach, over the scar. Hears Hannibal's shaky exhale, feels his fingers curl in Will's shirt.

"When you've thought about it," Will says, and is glad Hannibal doesn't do either of them the disservice of pretending he hasn't, "how do you imagine it?"

"Again, it changes," Hannibal replies. He's so close, close enough to kiss. His hand slides up, gently curls in Will's hair. "I have no preference – you are beautiful. You would be beautiful coming undone beneath me, or above me." There's a pause, and Will's stomach tightens. "How do you imagine it?"

"I haven't let myself think about it," Will says, and that much is true. "I couldn't, before…. Before."

Hannibal's head tilts. "And now?"

"I don't know."

Hannibal hums, a considering sound. He leans in, and Will's eyes close, a shiver running down his spine as Hannibal's lips press to his forehead, and he nuzzles Will's damp hair, his hand sliding to the nape of Will's neck and holding fast.

"Well," he purrs, and pulls back when the kiss is done, "you let me know the moment you decide."

Will smiles, and takes Hannibal's hand, and kisses his knuckles. "Of course."


	7. And In No Time We're...

Whether it was because of the sharp curve of the bathtub, or a natural thing caused by the change in temperature, or the fact that he slept tense and ramrod straight in their bed that night, Will cannot say, but he wakes up with an undeniable, terrible pressure in his shoulders. It locks up his neck and he groans, putting his hand beneath his chin and twisting it to one side until his neck releases a series of sharp cracks. It doesn't help. He huffs another breath, tense with pain, and flattens his chest to the bed, tucks his shoulder and arm beneath him and slowly applies pressure until it, too, pops with another loud noise. That helps, somewhat, but the ache is still there, heavy on his spine like a great beast is pressing him down.

Hannibal isn't in the bed with him, and Will closes his eyes, sighing heavily. He can't bring himself to roll over and check the clock, and his arm tingles with pins and needles as he tries to get feeling to return after cracking his shoulder. He pushes himself up, or tries to, gritting his teeth and growling when his other shoulder locks and he freezes in a half-crouch, breathing hard against the bed.

He hears the door open – whether Hannibal was alerted by the sound of his movement, or simply came to check on Will, he isn't certain. The sun is high, hinting at it being much later than normal when Will wakes.

He collapses back onto the bed when a tremor runs up him, a moan of both pain and aggravation punched from his chest.

"Will," Hannibal says, quietly, and his shadow darkens Will's side. "Are you alright?"

Will grunts. "Shoulder's locked up again," he says, and flattens to his belly, managing barely to lift his hands to rest by his head. "I'll be fine, just gotta…" Wait, usually. If he pops it enough times it tends to settle.

Hannibal lets out a soft noise, quietly fretting, his knee dipping the mattress by Will's hip. Even that shift in movement makes Will tense up with a low whine. Right after the fall, when they were both still recovering, they would have to monitor each other, re-set broken bones and massage sore joints, but once Will was able to handle it on his own, he shunned Hannibal's touch.

He can't do that anymore. Can't, especially after what happened last night.

He turns his head, looks up at Hannibal through sweaty hair and low lashes, and says, "Can you rub them for me?"

Hannibal's head tilts, and he smiles. "Of course, darling," he purrs. His hand comes forward, sliding Will's hair up from his nape, and he leans down to press his lips to Will's temple. "Remain here. I'll be back shortly."

He goes into the bathroom and Will breathes out, closing his eyes. He turns his nose to his pillow, burying his face in it until his breath turns it hot and damp, coiling around his neck. He doesn't lift his head as Hannibal comes back, doesn't move at the sound of the massage oil being set on his bedside table. Stiffens, and breathes in sharply, as Hannibal mounts him, settling high on Will's thighs.

Hannibal's hands encircle his shoulders, under his arms, and Will moans weakly as he's forced to lift to his elbows. Hannibal's exhale is warm on his neck and Will's eyes clench shut, tightly, he presses his lips together and swallows as Hannibal's fingers curl at the base of his shirt, pushing it up. He bows his head, letting Hannibal unhook it from his neck until it pools around his elbows, and his touch is, for a moment, purely clinical and efficient, helping Will work it over his wrists and hands and then off the bed, piling on the floor.

Then, _then_. Will trembles and lies down as Hannibal coaxes him flat. Will is very aware of Hannibal's weight, his heat, the strength of his thighs as they are tucked so tight around Will's own. Hannibal's hands flatten warmly on his flanks and Will shivers, tense shoulders rolling up as Hannibal pauses.

Leans down, and presses his nose to Will's neck. Breathes in.

Hannibal lets out a noise that is not quite a snarl, but close. "Were they hurting last night?" he asks, and he's warm, and heavy on Will, pinning him in place. He shakes his head, and Hannibal hums. "You -."

He stops, clears his throat, uncharacteristically quiet. His claws flex in Will's flesh.

His nose flattens between Will's shoulder blades, drags down, and he sucks in another heavy breath, and Will knows exactly what he's thinking about. He waits, to see if Hannibal will say anything about it – mention that, despite Will's instructions to bathe after Hannibal finished on him, there still undoubtedly clings remnants of his scent. Because Will wasn't thorough. He didn't want to be.

But he says nothing, and finally straightens, reaching for the massage oil. The press of his hips against Will is maddening, a tease of weight and heat and Will remembers how it had felt, on his back, Hannibal sitting in his lap. Remembers how it had felt to have Hannibal's cock rutting against him. Thinks, dark and damning, that Hannibal has him right where he wants him.

The lid clicks open, and Hannibal wets his hands, setting it down. The oil is unscented, saving his sensitive nose, and despite Will's thoughts dangling wildly towards the center of this whirlpool of tension between them, he is rapidly pulled back into the much more intimately familiar soil of pain, as Hannibal cups his shoulder, the one Jack shot, and digs in with fierce pressure.

It hurts, there's nothing about it that doesn't hurt, and Will groans quietly, clenching his jaw as Hannibal's hand wraps around the front of his shoulder and tugs back, forcing Will's arm up, elbow bent and wrist near-fracturing as he claws at the sheets and braces himself. Hannibal's fingers are strong, and merciless as the rest of him, and quickly find the knot of abused scar tissue that causes immobility. It is familiar to him.

He flattens his fingers and slides them up to Will's neck, then back down like he's petting a particularly stale piece of clay into shape. Will trembles, muffling another pained sound against his pillow, his other wrist pressing knuckles tight to his teeth as he bares them. He wants to buck, to writhe away, but accepts that surrender will be better for him in the long run. Just as, perhaps, it has always been.

The knot yields after another moment, and Hannibal breathes out in a pleased huff, before he tightens his hands and jerks Will's shoulder back until it cracks, again, sharply, and Will cries out, another rush of pins and needles making his arm go slack.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, and Hannibal hums again, his touch gentler now, rubbing down Will's shoulder blade and under his arm. He pulls Will's elbow tight to his side, then flattens his hand, coaxing Will to stretch his arm above his head. Will obeys, going slack with another low growl, a slight shiver.

Hannibal is smiling, Will can practically feel it, and he leans down and kisses Will's hair. "Good," he growls, in a voice Will recognizes in the same way he recognizes hunger – a sharp, deeply stabbing flash of heat and makes him break out into goose bumps. "Keep your arm up."

Will swallows, and wraps his nails in the top of the mattress with a weak noise.

Then, the other shoulder. This one has been stabbed twice, shot once, and took the brunt of the beating when they fell into the ocean. As a result, though, it is easier to manipulate and maneuver, like balls of wet sand instead of dry clay. There is a stiff grind as Hannibal's thumb smooths between shoulder blade and spine, healed bone that still pops and shifts like a cooling engine. It hurts less, but aches more, and Will closes his eyes, imagines that, perhaps, there is a stain there that only Hannibal can see, can smell, still-warm and whited out from where he spilled, marking Will's shoulder last night.

Hannibal must sense it, because his breathing is hard. Not from strain – his fingers do not falter, still as precise and strong as always, as he rolls Will's arm up and Will flattens his hand between headboard and mattress without being told.

He rolls his hips, settling into place, and gasps. Hannibal is hard, there's nowhere for him to hide it, tightly pressed to Will as he is. Though Hannibal seems content to disregard this fact, Will is suddenly, abruptly, _terribly_ aware.

Hannibal's hands slide, slick, down the tensed line of muscle connecting shoulder to ribcage, and Will licks his lips.

"Do you like it when I'm in pain?"

Hannibal's hands go still, just for a moment. He breathes out heavily, and continues. "There's a certain beauty in suffering, wouldn't you agree?"

Will can. Does. Maybe that's Hannibal's influence, maybe it isn't, but there is; the cut-off, choking groans he's making, the tension in his body, the subtle tremor running down his arms. He thinks of Hannibal doing the same, that maybe their positions would be reversed, and that hunger in his stomach grows claws, flexes.

"So you admit you enjoy my suffering."

Hannibal huffs a laugh, the action making his body shake above Will's, and Will bites his lower lip, wants to spread his legs, wants to see how far Hannibal will take it. If he'd stop, and pull away. If Will would let him if he tried.

"I feel…a very deep satisfaction in taking care of you, Will," Hannibal says. Will wishes he could see his face. His fingers find another knot, pressing harshly, unforgiving, and Will shakes around another plaintive cry as it gives, dissolving like ice in a thaw, and then Hannibal presses both hands flat on either side of his spine, presses with a sharp grunt and Will's back cracks, and he finally, _finally_ , feels like he can breathe properly.

He goes lax, nails in the mattress, and closes his eyes as Hannibal cups his nape with one wet hand, gently squeezing under the guise of massaging any lingering tension away. But Will knows he just likes touching Will's neck, likes how Will reacts when he does it; soft shivers, aching sighs. Goose bumps, standing out along his neck and upper arms.

"There was a time," Hannibal says, confession-soft, "when I took great delight in seeing you in pain, knowing it was part of my design. You break apart so wonderfully, and when first we met you were so desperate for help, so in obvious need of care." He sighs, and drags his nails down, flattening both hands to Will's back and eking out the last of the lingering tension.

Will huffs. Old wounds, but they ache like his shoulders do. "Your care was more like torture, back then," he says. It still is, in a way, but in such a better way. Maybe Will likes being in pain, too.

Hannibal hums, and his hands slide up Will's arms. His fingers spread out around his wrists, tighten, and his chest presses flat to Will's damp skin. Will shivers, warm to the bone, and turns his head to one side as Hannibal's nose drags along his shoulder.

"Torture can be beautiful too, Will," he says, and that is all he says.

Will shivers, closing his eyes. "Does it make you happy?" he asks. Hannibal tilts his head, nuzzles Will's nape.

He breathes out, warm, and Will shivers again. "Yes," he replies, nails in Will's wrists. His hips roll, subtly as possible, his cock heavy and hard against Will's ass. Will makes a soft noise, desperate and rough, and his thighs part just a little. He trembles as Hannibal makes room for him, and snarls when his erection ruts within the new space.

He is everywhere; against Will's back, covering his arms, lips to his neck, heavy on his back and hips. Will stretches, moaning behind his teeth as his back and shoulders ache, eased into pliancy now. Their fingers lace, ring to ring, knuckle to knuckle, and Will breathes out heavily.

Hannibal hums, and noses his neck. "How do they feel now?"

"Better, thank you."

He feels Hannibal smile, receives a single chaste, light kiss in answer, and then Hannibal straightens, releasing him. "Good." Will pulls his arms back, rises to his elbows, rolls his shoulders and sighs in relief to feel they're not locked up anymore. His head is bowed, showing Hannibal his neck, and Hannibal climbs off him with one last brush of his hands.

Will looks up. Hannibal's cheeks are flushed, his cock standing out obscenely in his suit pants. He's not dressed for work – he would have been gone already, if he was working today. Will licks his lips, and feels a sharp, tense shred of want burst through him that dries his tongue.

Hannibal's gaze is ravenous, raking obviously down the slope of Will's back, the curve of his body. "Hannibal," he whispers, and Hannibal's eyes flash to meet his. Will reaches for him, takes his hand when Hannibal offers it, and rolls onto his back, pulling Hannibal back onto the bed.

They rest on their sides, Hannibal on top of the sheets, Will below them. Will meets his eyes, and shivers, reaching again and flattening his hand on Hannibal's hip.

"Are you particularly attached to what you're wearing right now?"

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his head tilts, a spark of intrigue coloring his iris. But he smiles, and shakes his head.

Will nods. "Good." Then, he tugs, and Hannibal follows him, eager as ever. Will leans up, nose to his neck, and shivers as he parts his thighs, drawing Hannibal between them. Clothes and blankets separate himself and Hannibal, but Hannibal's weight and heat is absolute, and he settles with a low snarl, clutching at Will's bare skin, as Will spreads his legs and lets Hannibal settle between them.

Hannibal wastes no time – one hand slides into Will's hair, gripping tightly, the other harsh on Will's flank, and Will is kissed, thoroughly, deeply, and Hannibal rolls his hips and ruts between Will's legs. Will gasps, moaning weakly, his nails in Hannibal's shoulders and his knees lifting, clutching around Hannibal's hips.

They are silent, save for their breathing and the rush of Will's blood in his ears. Hannibal kisses him, again, again, panting heavily as he then buries his face in Will's neck, stifles an eager growl on his flushed skin. He moves against Will greedily, taking the offer of Will's thighs and stomach for friction and heat. Will closes his eyes, helpless but to be swept up into the wave of Hannibal's arousal, the cling of his sweat-damp skin to Will's lips, the softness of his hair when Will slides a hand up.

Hannibal lets out a raw, savage sound, claws at Will's aching shoulders and ruts fiercely, like a caged animal finally allowed to run free. Will can imagine what he's thinking, and allows it to take him; pictures them, bare and writhing together. Imagines Hannibal using his mouth, his fingers, to spread Will open. He can feel how thick and heavy Hannibal's cock is, can imagine it piercing him, Hannibal thrusting deep and owning every part of Will he can; teeth in his neck and claws in his flanks, holding Will still as he thrusts and ruts like something wild.

Imagines Will flipping him, settling heavy on his thighs, imagines pinning Hannibal down and watching his face as Will moves on top of him. It would be torture, then, for both of them, Will too inexperienced with moving that way, teeth bared, wanting to kiss and wanting to bite. Hannibal would let him, he's sure – he'd do whatever it takes to keep Will right where he wants him.

The image shifts, tilts wildly, and Will closes his eyes and growls as he imagines Hannibal letting him do this. Letting Will between his legs, letting Will fuck him however he likes. He'd put Hannibal on his hands and knees, maybe, claw and bite as much as he likes, knowing Hannibal is in no position to fight back.

He stiffens, whining low, and Hannibal snarls against his neck. " _Will_."

"I want you to come on me," he breathes, for that much he knows. Hannibal tenses, rearing up, his eyes black and wild as his hand slides back into Will's hair. Tugs, to bare his neck, and Will gasps. "Like – like you did last night."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and drop to the bared scar on Will's stomach. He smiles, wide, wide.

"And if I give you what you want," he purrs, and Will sucks in an unsteady breath, "what will I get in return?"

Will swallows.

"Quid pro quo, darling."

Will whines, and thinks about those three kisses he'd had to bear, to get the one he wants.

"What do you want?" he whispers. He can see Hannibal is close, now – recognizes the clench in his jaw and the flare of his nostrils as he breathes deep, holding back until he's ready to let go. His shoulders roll beneath Will's hands, his eyes so dark now, highlighted by the flush on his cheeks and neck.

Hannibal's lips part, showing his teeth, and Will's eyes are wide when Hannibal cups his face, makes their eyes lock. Says, very softly, "I suppose that depends." Will whines again, swallowing harshly. "Will you allow me to touch you, or force me to watch?"

The thought of Hannibal's large hand wrapped around his cock makes Will's brain light up, on fire and helplessly burning. "Touch me," he demands, and rakes his nails along Hannibal's clothed back. "Fuck, fucking touch me. _Please_."

Hannibal smiles, and his lashes dip low. He turns his head, nuzzles the corner of Will's gasping mouth, his jaw, and he slides his hands down to Will's hips, pins him with all his strength, rolls his hips. Then, he moves, forcing Will's legs down so he can climb on top, and he unbuttons his suit pants and slides his hand into his underwear, pulling out his cock.

Will's eyes are wide, rapt, watching Hannibal stroke himself. He didn't get to look before, but now he does, the most captive audience to ever exist. Hannibal is thick, the head of his cock much paler, the whole of it pink and flushed. Will's jaws ache, wanting a taste, and he watches Hannibal's thumb swipe through the slick beading at the head.

He grabs, frantically, and pulls Hannibal's thumb to his mouth, spreads his lips and licks. Hannibal shudders, snarling, his other hand taking over. Will's stomach sinks in, his hips rising to grind between Hannibal's legs as Hannibal touches himself.

He comes, when Will's teeth meet his knuckle.

Spills, thick and warm over Will's sensitive skin. It's a sudden enough burst of heat that Will gasps, lets go, but Hannibal cups his chin and digs in with his nails.

"Don't look away," he demands, and Will is helpless but to obey. He breathes in shakily, stomach flinching at each new spurt of Hannibal's come as it stains his belly and chest. Hannibal's hand slows, pulling at his cock as it starts to soften, and he breathes out heavily, swallowing loud enough that his throat clicks.

Will's fingers shake as he slides them through the mess, smearing it on his hand. He wants to taste, and he does, sucking a finger into his mouth as Hannibal watches him. Hannibal's upper lip twitches back, his eyes flash, and he leans down, pulling Will's head up for a kiss. His tongue slides between Will's parted lips, sharing the taste, and Will trembles and moans when he feels teeth.

Then, Hannibal pulls back, and corrects his clothes. His breathing is still heavy, soaking in the scent of Will painted with his seed. He moves back and forces Will's knees apart again, fingers curling in the blankets and pulling back to reveal Will's trapped erection, a large wet spot already darkening his sweatpants.

He makes a soft, feral-sounding noise. Rubs his hand through the mess on Will's belly and takes Will out without a word, wrapping his slick fingers around Will's shaft. Will moans, louder this time, his thighs shaking as Hannibal's free hand digs into one of them, holds him fast and strong as he strokes Will with a tight grip.

"Oh, _fuck_." Will can't control the roll of his hips, the surge in his spine making him bow back, showing his neck. He drags his dirty hand through his hair, knowing Hannibal will smell it on him later, desperate to coat himself in Hannibal's scent. His mate will know him, by smell alone, and he wants it, _wants_ it.

"Will," Hannibal growls. "Look at me."

Will obeys, trying desperately to keep his eyes open as he pants, writhing under Hannibal's touch. It's like Hannibal knows just how to touch him, knows that Will likes unbearable tightness around the head of his cock, likes a sweep of thumb below the head, likes a slow, tight drag down and a quicker stroke up. Will is shaking, gasping, helplessly strung out between Hannibal's hand and the heat in his eyes.

He paws at Hannibal's knees, nails clinging, and grits his teeth when he comes. Hannibal's mouth twitches in a smile, his lashes going low as Will moans and bucks beneath him, thighs wrapped tight around his hips, claws at his own thighs and up, around hipbones, up his slick chest. He whimpers as Hannibal strokes him through it, gives him that little knife-edge of overstimulation as Will finishes, adding to the mess on his flushed skin.

Hannibal lets him go, looks down at the smear of come in the saddle of his hand. Meets Will's eyes, and licks his hand clean.

Will gasps, breathing hard, and Hannibal hums.

"The wine has made you sweeter," he murmurs, and Will flushes deeper, burning on the inside.

He can't speak, but pushes himself upright, wincing at the ache in his sore shoulders, the drip of still-wet come running down his stomach and pooling around his cock. Hannibal smiles at him, cups his nape and kisses, gently, at his forehead.

He breathes in, and lets out another soft, purring, pleased sound. "That was beautiful, Will," he says, and Will's eyes close. "Perhaps, if you're willing to indulge me a little further, you'll wait until tonight before showering."

Will smiles. "Okay."

Hannibal releases him with another smile, and pulls his sweatpants back into place. They quickly gain another dark stain. "The contractor will be here today to fix the roof," he says, and rises from the bed. Will blinks, frowning. He'd almost forgotten about the roof, and wonders if Hannibal expects him to go back to his room when it's fixed.

Doesn't ask. He doesn't want to know the answer.

He lets out a small huff. "I stink of sex," he mutters, and from the look in Hannibal's eyes, his wide, pleased smile, he realizes that was precisely the point. He resists the urge to roll his eyes at Hannibal's obvious possessive streak.

Hannibal bends down, gathers his shirt, and hands it to him. "Come now," he murmurs. "I've made lunch."

Will blinks, and looks to the clock. It's almost noon.

He nods, dons his shirt, and slides out of bed on shaky legs. Hannibal smiles, and puts a hand on the small of his back, and guides him towards the kitchen.

 

The contractors come. The roof is, apparently, easy to fix, from what Will understands of Spanish and their attempts at English. They finish the same day. Will's room is free to use again.

He even goes, and finds his bed foreign and cold. It feels like his pillows are too thin, lacking his scent, lacking Hannibal's. He had wine with dinner, and his head is buzzing in a way not consistent with drunkenness – rather, a fine fever, for this is not his home. This is not where his mate sleeps.

He gives up after another hour, dragging himself from bed, and pads to Hannibal's room. Knocks, and receives a soft 'Come in'. He enters, and finds Hannibal propped up in bed, a small tightness around his eyes that instantly melts with joy when he sees Will coming to him.

Will goes to him, climbs onto his side of the bed, and sighs, instantly calmed. "I don't belong there," he says.

Hannibal doesn't say anything, but he turns off the light and slides down, like he was similarly unable to sleep until he had Will with him again. Will sighs, closing his eyes, and the buzzing finally stops when he pushes back, shivers at the press of Hannibal's strong chest to his back. He hasn't showered, and Hannibal's nose presses to his neck, his arm wraps and tightens around Will, and he lets out a rough, sated growl.

"No," he murmurs. "You belong here."

Will smiles. He doesn't nod. He doesn’t need to. He worms his way deeper into Hannibal's arms, breathes in a large lungful of their mixed scents, and finally relaxes. Sleep comes to them both soon after.


	8. The Lesson Learned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory Will having a freakout chapter. I'm thinking there's maybe two more chapter of this, so something to look forward to :D

When Will wakes in the new day, the bed is empty. He huffs, and wonders when he became such a heavy sleeper. There was a time when even the tick of a clock could rouse him, and he would toss and turn at the rattle of windows, the crunch of leaves beneath a raccoon outside his home. Now, though, warm sun and Hannibal's heat make him lazy, make him feel safe.

Hannibal has left him a little container of eggs and sausage in the microwave, which he heats up and consumes, standing, in their kitchen. He eyes the wine rack, thinks of the sweet red Hannibal had fed him the night before. Considers, sitting on a little shelf next to the rack, the bottle of whiskey. It's not an American brand, nothing he recognizes, but he knows Hannibal bought it for him once they were both off their meds and able to consume alcohol again. Will hasn't touched it, barely even looked at it, but he stares now.

His chest is tight, his mind aflame. Controlled descent his ass – he still feels like he's careening off course, due to crash. Hannibal's arms around him had kept him safe, kept him calm, and each new way they touch each other sets him alight, but this is exactly what he was afraid of. His dreams had been full and chaotic, always a mesh of skin, sometimes a smear of blood. Hannibal, behind him, breathing hard as Will stayed still, let him bite, let him fuck. The drag of Hannibal's cock between his thighs, then up, to where Will was slick and open. Hannibal, parting for Will even as his nails raked down Will's back. The give of Hannibal's soft throat beneath Will's teeth, the sounds he would make as Will opened him up – he might snarl and shiver and cling to Will, might go completely lax and let Will do as he wanted. Will isn't sure what he wants more – for Hannibal to fight him, for them both to succumb to dumb rutting instincts of beasts, slaves to passion and fervor, or for Hannibal to simply lie back and enjoy himself, trusting that Will would take care of him. Maybe both. Yes, both sounds good.

Not a man of moderation, that's what Hannibal had called him. No, Will is gluttonous. Starving. He aches for more, constantly, and isn't this what Hannibal does? Give a little, give a little more, until there is no part of Will that doesn't go weak at the sight of him. In every acquiescence, every inch of given ground, Hannibal has ensnared him. Now, Will comes to him. Asks for him, desperately. It's dependence, maybe codependence, and it's everything Will was afraid of because it still doesn't feel like enough.

He finishes his meal, sets the plate in the sink, and grabs the whiskey bottle. Outside, the air is warm, the sun shining brightly and heating the metal bench. Will sits with a sigh, uncaps the bottle and tosses the lid into one of the flowerbeds, and tilts it back.

His throat spasms, and he coughs, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. It's like he's a teenager again, unused to the burn of alcohol and the heavy, sharp taste as it coats his tongue and slides down his throat, pooling behind his heart. He swallows, gasps, and takes another long swig until the liquid inside is sitting just above the label.

This is a bad idea. Hannibal will be pissed. Will doesn't care, except he does. Hannibal has been gentle with him since the fall, inspired by a deep devotion that was only revealed in all its splendor by blood and moonlight. Will has yet to see his wrath, like it was before, and he wonders if this is enough to do it. The ocean stripped away Will's energy, left him aching and hollow, and he hadn't given much thought as to what Hannibal would do if Will pissed him off – Will has always, it seems, been a single exemption to all of Hannibal's rules, but now Hannibal is making the rules again, and Will doesn't know what will happen when he breaks them.

But borders have been marked now. They're sharpening, the edges of what he's allowed and what he can get away with, he understands. The problem is now that the room is flooding, and Will doesn't know if he can breathe underwater. The whirlpool of tension created between them has caught him and he's being dragged into the center, there's no way out of it. He will fall overboard, and he will drown, and maybe in tossing him a lifeboat Hannibal will fall as well.

Maybe Will wants him to.

It's a stupid idea, a monumentally stupid idea, but Will digs out his cell phone, grimacing when he feels the tacky cling of Hannibal's and his come still sticking to his stomach and thighs. He hasn't showered, still – didn't want to erase Hannibal's scent from him. It's appeasement, like covering oneself in the scent of an animal before approaching its territory.

He calls Hannibal.

"Hello, darling," Hannibal murmurs on the second ring. "Are you alright?"

Will hums, and takes another drink of whiskey, gasping at the burn. "Yeah," he replies. "Just…" Just what? Missed him? Wanted to hear his voice? Wondered if he was thinking about Will too? Yes, and more.

Hannibal is silent, and Will takes another drink, growling at the flavor. It's too sharp, too sour for his tastes now. Hannibal has changed what his tongue prefers.

Hannibal lets out a quiet noise – not quite disapproval. Curious. "Are you drunk?"

"Getting there," Will replies, eyeing the layer of darkness that marks the top of the whiskey. The bottle is almost half gone, now. "Drinking that bottle you got me. The black one. It's too sour for my tastes."

Another sound. This one is definitely disapproval. Will's stomach tenses, eager, anticipating what Hannibal will say, or do. Because Will broke one of the rules – unspoken, he understands Hannibal doesn't want him drinking alone. Doesn't want him drinking or eating anything Hannibal did not explicitly provide in real time for him. He understands the visceral pleasure Hannibal feels, watching him eat and drink, knowing he was the one to provide. Still caring for Will, even after everything.

"Perhaps something sweeter, next time," Hannibal replies, finally, after another long silence. Will frowns, wipes his hand over his mouth, and looks down at his bare feet. His toes curl and he presses them against the ground until they crack. "I'll pick something else up on the way home. Thank you for informing me."

The call ends, and for a moment Will can only sit and blink down at the flat stone slabs that border the bench before the garden becomes grass. The warmth in his chest suddenly turns very cold, his heart giving several heavy beats of anxiety as he lowers his phone and presses it against the seat. A tremor runs up his arms and he looks at the bottle, hanging limp and loose in his other hand.

"Fuck," he whispers. He doesn't have the wherewithal and certainly, soon, won't have the coordination to go searching for the lid. So, mutely, he tips it over and pours it onto the grass, and then sets the bottle by the bench leg. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he doesn't move, as the fog in his head grows thick and heavy and his stomach rolls.

 

 

Hannibal returns a short time before dusk, and Will hasn't moved. He is shivering in the comparative chill, since he has put on neither shoes nor a sweater, and remains in his sweatpants and t-shirt when Hannibal's shadow, darker than the grey-blue setting-sun sky casting their house in black silhouette, comes into shape at the edge of his vision.

Will's shoulders roll, and tense up. His eyes are wet and he raises his head, sucks in a breath, and turns to meet Hannibal's eyes. He's still a little drunk, a little blurry on the edges, and doesn't think he would be nearly as steady if he tried to stand.

Hannibal meets his gaze, impassive as a statue. His hands are in his pockets, his stance straight and solid, he looks like a disappointed parent or teacher. Will hates that look on him – bares his teeth and rips his gaze away, glaring out across the garden. He hears Hannibal breathe in, undoubtedly able to smell the whiskey Will poured out. Perhaps in mourning.

After a moment, Hannibal does not sigh, but the air gets several degrees colder and Will doesn't think enough time has passed to blame that on the weather. Hannibal steps up to him, reaches out, and wraps a gentle hand in his hair. Will sags, lashes fluttering, a soft whine spilling from him at the soft, soothing touch.

Then, it tightens, and Hannibal hauls him to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Will demands, but he's too uncoordinated to fight back – and, he'll admit, in that dark place that only Hannibal seems inclined to search for, that he's curious. What will Hannibal do, he wonders, what is he capable of.

Hannibal leads him up the stairs, and Will's heart goes still. Instinctively, he reaches out, curling a hand around the bannister in a weak grip that Hannibal easily overcomes. He tries to shake his head, clawing at Hannibal's jacket, his arm – only to suddenly let go in surprise when Hannibal opens Will's bedroom door and throws him inside.

Before Will can recover, the door shuts, and he hears a key clicking the lock into place. He can only blink, for a moment, before he whirls around and tries the door, and finds it unmoving.

He snarls, slamming his fist once against the wood. "Hannibal!" he shouts. "Let me out!"

He almost doesn't expect an answer, and punches the door again with another snarl. Then, he hears a sigh. "You need to sober up," Hannibal's voice comes, curt and with no room for argument. "There are things we will need to discuss, and we cannot discuss them when neither of us are thinking clearly."

Will pauses. Absorbs that. "You're not thinking clearly?"

"No, Will," Hannibal says, and his voice promises terrible things if Will somehow manages to open the door. Will swallows, and steps back – not cowed, he tells himself, but even wolves know when to back away from a fight.

There's another moment of silence, and then Hannibal's footsteps fading away. Will presses his knuckles to his mouth, sobbing once, the wetness in his eyes sharpening and blurring his vision. He goes to his cold, unwelcoming bed and collapses on the end of it, his head in his hands again, that ache ever-present in his chest growing tense and expanding like metal in heat, threatening to explode and rip him to shreds.

" _Fuck_."

 

 

Will doesn't sleep. Whenever he gets close, his treacherous mind wanders, sends him flashes of his dreams, some based on real events, some not. He looks at his knuckles and thinks they are too rounded, flattened by bone and split into uneven, unnatural shapes. Thinks of Hannibal binding his hands after the fact, with warm water and warmer words. Love, a plea to simply _stay_ , not to retreat, either physically or mentally.

Will did that, when he promised he wouldn't. He came to Hannibal in a dark hour of the night and admitted where he belonged, and Hannibal had thrown him back like a fish too small to satisfy. Rejection burns in Will, alongside misery, and guilt. All he'd had to do was obey, to be still, to keep a fucking grip on himself and he hadn't. One slip and the entire mountain came down around him and it's all his fault because he let it happen.

He becomes aware, as he fades in and out of consciousness, that Hannibal is moving around the house. He listens, head tilted, eyes closed. Listens to the low _whoosh_ of the fire being lit, curls his toes as it warms the house. Listens to the clink and clatter of pots and pans, breathes in deeply when he smells meat, and rice, and – what is that, chocolate? Mint? Hannibal is making something sweet.

Another curl of petulant aggravation wells up in him. Is he going to be sent to his room without dinner? He's not a _child_. His upper lip twitches, he tries to school the anger before he does something stupid.

Then, the front door opens. Will stands, suddenly enough that his head spins, and rushes to his bedroom door. Presses his ear against it – laughter, he hears a woman. Just one woman, whose voice he doesn't recognize. He frowns, testing the handle though he knows it's still locked. What the fuck is Hannibal doing with a woman, while Will remains up here, locked away like a dirty little secret?

He snarls, and contemplates just breaking the damn thing down, but he resists. Barely. He hears Hannibal approach, imagines him greeting her with a smile, taking her coat, all the things he normally does when they have guests. Oh, his _mind_ , Will can't help himself – he pictures this woman and she looks startingly like Bedelia, and Will's teeth snap together with a sharp click.

How dare he. How _fucking_ dare he. Will's fists clench, he paces to the window in his room – painted shut, they discovered that during the first week and Will hasn't gotten around to working it open again – and turns on his heel. He feels little better than a caged animal, because he _is_ , and Hannibal is downstairs entertaining some _woman_ Will doesn't know and he's probably not going to let Will out any time soon to find out.

Oh, this is anger. It floods him more than alcohol ever could, a rich, sweet jealousy and possessiveness that Will hasn't felt since he found out Bedelia had returned from Florence, alive and well. His mind easily conjures her image and he's happy to pretend she's the one downstairs, that he might break out of his room, come up behind her and wrap his hands around her neck. Make Hannibal watch – would he simply stare, smiling in that way he does that only lights up his eyes? Would he direct Will's hands, make him press his thumb _here_ , tighten his knuckles _there_? Would he join in?

Will freezes, closes his eyes, and sucks in a breath through his teeth. He thinks about what he might do, and his knees are weak and his head is hot, and he burns, he _burns_ , and if he could he'd be howling, desperate to get to his mate. Will doesn't belong in this room but _Hannibal_ doesn't belong down there. He belongs with _Will_ , by Will's side, he belongs where Will can keep a fucking eye on him and a hand on him at all times.

His claws flex, and he imagines grabbing Hannibal by the throat, flattening his hand over the bruise still-lingering from his teeth. Will is strong, just as strong as Hannibal, and anger and adrenaline would give him that edge. He thinks about shoving Hannibal against his cabinets, against the wall, over the Goddamn table if he has to. Imagines biting, clawing, oh, Hannibal would go weak for him. Will knows he would, because he knows exactly what Hannibal wants.

It comes to him in a moment of crystal clarity.

_Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the mere sight of you?_

"Yes," Will breathes, aloud.

_But do you ache for him?_

He thinks of the moon, that half-moon that looked so fake. The lake, reflecting it. Thinks of their stars in alignment and the conversation of conjugation and separation. Branded by salt, by iron, sealed together in stitches and scars. Hannibal is _his_.

_Don't do me the disservice of pretending our intimacy is being decided on my terms._

Will puts his hands in his hair, his head throbbing. Of course. Will is gluttonous, but Hannibal has been left out in the cold to starve.

He lets out a weak, frantic sound. He must go to Hannibal now. He must. He doesn't know if the woman is still here, doesn't know how much time has passed, but he goes to his door and jerks, harshly, on the handle. Knocks on the wood and calls, weakly, "Hannibal. Please. _Please_."

He rests his forehead on the wood, closing his eyes, and listens. For a while, there is nothing, and he stifles another weak sound and clenches his eyes shut. Then, movement – soft footsteps up the stairs. No shoes; the woman must have gone. Will sags against the door as the steps approach his bedroom and come to a stop.

"Please," he says again, loud enough to be heard, but it hurts, his throat is so tight and tense and it aches. "Hannibal, I'm sorry. I want to talk about this."

He hears, very softly, a sigh, and then the sound of a key entering the lock and he steps back, since the door swings inward, allowing it to open. Hannibal is there, his hair slicked back from his face, tension around his eyes and the corner of his mouth, in a simple button-down, white, black suit pants. Dressed down – Will swallows back the acidic barb on his tongue that wants to ask if it was for _her_.

He doesn't ask. The answer doesn't matter. Hannibal's hands slide into his pockets and he lifts his chin, impassive, cold. So distant, Will feels like he's breaking apart on the inside when he meets his eyes.

He lowers his head, shoulders trembling, and steps right up into Hannibal's space, pulling the door closed behind him. He does it quickly, does not linger, and threads his hands under Hannibal's arms, up around the backs of his shoulders, and buries his face in Hannibal's neck. Shivers, when he feels Hannibal tense in the stomach, but his arms loosen, instinctively wanting to draw Will in, and his throat flexes against Will's nose.

"I'm sorry," Will breathes, clinging to him desperately. His nails dig into Hannibal's back, and he feels the slightly raised, hard scar of the Verger brand between Hannibal's shoulders. He hadn't seen it until after the fall, when it had long-since healed, and remembers wanting to weep when Hannibal told him what had happened. This is not his guilt, but he felt that pain, felt the depth of what it meant and remembers realizing that when Hannibal had brought him home and tucked him in, he'd been suffering that pain alongside. Wonders, absently, which had hurt him more, when Will told him he wanted nothing more to do with Hannibal.

Hannibal's shoulders loosen, his hands slide out of his pockets and he tenderly, lightly, embraces Will back. "Tell me why," he says, even, demanding. Will won't get away with blanket apologizing for his sins.

Will swallows. "I shouldn't have touched the whiskey without asking you first," he says, and winces. That sounds childish, and he knows that's not what this is about. "I shouldn't have let myself freak out, and do stupid shit that I knew would antagonize you. I got scared, and then I got stupid, and then I got stupid a few more times, and I'm so caught up in making sure I'm not in too deep that -."

He stops, tightening his arms around Hannibal.

"I thought I was drowning but I've been underwater this whole time," he whispers. Hannibal sighs, turning his head, his jaw to Will's cheek, nose to his hair. One of his arms wraps around Will's waist, the other lightly cupping his nape. He breathes in, savagely glad he doesn't smell anything foreign on Hannibal – whatever that woman was here for, clearly it wasn't for anything more intimate than a friendly chat.

His head hurts, and Hannibal still hasn't said anything. Will tightens his arms, closes his eyes, nuzzles and lets out his breath in a heavy exhale. "I heard her," he whispers. Hannibal merely hums in response. "I thought about killing her while you watched me."

Hannibal's claws flex, just a little, and he slides a hand into Will's hair. Curls his fingers, tugs. Will's lashes lower, trusting and relaxed in his mate's arms. He tilts his head, chances a kiss and sighs when Hannibal allows it, tilting his head just so, so that Will can press, closed-mouth and chaste.

"Who was she?"

"The tour coordinator," Hannibal replies. Will frowns, scowling into his neck. "I told her I had to leave work early today, because my husband was terribly sick, and invited her to dinner as payment for the early day."

Understandable. Forgivable, _maybe_. At least Will knows, if that's true, she didn't expect any romantic overtures from him. His head grows warm, instinctively pleased to be called Hannibal's.

Hannibal sighs, and nuzzles him again. "Your jealousy is unwarranted, darling," he says, and then adds, so quietly Will almost doesn't hear; "It's always been you."

Will swallows, and pulls back. Doesn't mention Alana, or Bedelia. Conveniences, covers, brief liaisons to satisfy a divergent urge while the real gambit was being played. Will's jealousy might be unnecessary, but it is certainly not unfounded. It might be the strongest part of him.

He cups Hannibal's face and tries to think of the last time he initiated any touch like this. Finds he can't. Hannibal blinks at him, loosens his hold, the lines around his eyes and turning down his mouth flattening out, smoothing back into an expression of curious intrigue.

His head tilts.

Will licks his lips, slides his fingers to gently spread over Hannibal's neck. "Stay with me," he whispers, and Hannibal's eyes flash, his lips part, a small crease forms between his brows, as if to say, 'What other choice is there?'. "No, I mean it," Will continues before he can speak. "I don't care how angry you are, how drunk I am, how stupid either of us are being. You won't lock me away, I won't cast you aside. _Stay_."

Hannibal blinks again, and swallows, eyes dark with understanding.

Will can't resist anymore – he pulls Hannibal to him, kisses him with all the longing, the fervor, the passion he can muster – and Hannibal is kissing him back, deeply, teeth in Will's lower lip persuading his jaws to part, nails in Will's neck making him shiver and grow lax.

"You're mine," he growls, and Hannibal gives a snarl in answer, a _Yes, yes_ that he kisses onto Will, forming bruises on his lips, under his hand where it's gripping Will's hip. Will's shoulders hit his closed bedroom door and he wraps his arms around Hannibal's in return, rakes down his back, tilts his head so their kiss can deepen until his lungs seize and spasm with the need for air.

Hannibal pulls back, breathing heavily, eyes wild and cheeks flushed. He clears his throat and cups Will's face, just like he did all those years ago, and Will is gutted with longing all the same, but he won't bleed out, he won't drown. This doesn't feel like pain.

Hannibal breathes out heavily. "My dear Will," he murmurs, and Will's mouth twitches in a smile, he turns and nuzzles Hannibal's wrist, breathes him in. The simple truth is that Will knows what he wants, now – he wants Hannibal. All of him, in every form and facet. Wants it as much as he can, as often as he can, for the rest of his life.

Hannibal's eyes meet his, his head tilted, studying Will like Will is a color he's never seen before. His eyes drop, to Will's red mouth, rise again, and he smiles widely, alight with unrepentant pleasure when Will smiles back. Will leans in, cups his nape, kisses, kisses, until he conjures from Hannibal a deep, hungry growl.

"I don't suppose you saved any dinner for me?" he murmurs.

Hannibal nods. "She ended up leaving," Hannibal replies.

Will raises a brow.

"I sent her away. I was in too dark a turmoil to be a gracious host." Hannibal's expression changes, just for a moment, another old wound, one of many. "I don't…like being away from you. Not like that."

"I don't either," Will replies honestly, and cups his face, bringing their gazes back together. "Don't do it again."

Hannibal nods, cupping his hand, and kisses his knuckles. "I swear." And Will knows he means it, to the bone. "Come. It's still warm, and there's plenty."

Will smiles, and it widens when Hannibal eyes him with a glimmer of humor.

"And I made sure to get more wine."


	9. What Friends Don't Do (But Lovers Might)

Will only has one glass of wine with dinner, and doesn't ask for a second. Hannibal doesn't seem to mind this – there is, existing between them at a low-grade thrum, a promise of touch, lingering glances and brushing hands as Hannibal serves Will his meal, and takes his seat. Hannibal had, apparently, tried his hand at Gloria's paella, and it's delicious, and subtly seasoned to include their preferred meat rather than rabbit and clams and mussels.

They are drowning, together, and that notion does not bring with it pain; memories of being battered and tossed around by vicious, wind-chopped waves. No sharp aftertaste of salt and deep, deep aches in every wound that promised death if one of them was not vigilant. No, Will is warm, and comfortable, purring under Hannibal's attention.

Hannibal claims to have eaten already, so he merely watches Will. Dessert is a mint-chocolate mousse, airy and sweet, melting on the tongue. Will eats it ravenously, and thinks it tastes all the sweeter for Hannibal's gaze upon him, soft and fond and forgiving. Will's head burns with lingering alcohol, but he's sober enough that his words don't slur, and his heart has resumed its normal excited rhythm in his chest that he always gets in Hannibal's presence.

He realizes, after a long moment, when the plates are cleared away and they are merely sitting, that he's _happy_. He's almost giddy, like a normal man on his first date with someone he really likes. There existed, in past relationships, a moment when he would look at someone and simply know – know if there was a future between them. He had thought, perhaps, that part had been cut out of him a long time ago, but he feels it now, a sharp spark of ache in his stomach that begs _more, more, please more_. He is ravenous, gluttonous, drunk on Hannibal's influence, and if this is drowning then Will is happy to be in the deep end.

They regard each other over their near-empty glasses, and Will swallows when he abruptly realizes Hannibal is looking at him like _that_ again – like he did on the cliffs, before the fall. Unfiltered, unadulterated joy sweeps through Will like sunlight, and he smiles, and reaches for Hannibal, and laces their fingers. Hannibal's wedding ring is warm and solid between Will's knuckles, and Will turns his hand, idly spinning it with his thumb.

Hannibal's eyes drop, and darken, and Will lifts their entwined hands, elbow on the table, and kisses his wrist.

Says, daring, relying on this new agreement, old truth, this thrum of desire; "Take me to bed."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and he rises, pulling Will to his feet. Will goes to him, lets Hannibal take him in his arms, but he's the one who kisses first, cupping Hannibal's nape with his free hand and holding him still and steady as Will kisses him deeply.

Hannibal snarls against his mouth, one hand on Will's hip, digging in with nails through his clothes. Gone is the hesitance – though to call it hesitance is to do Hannibal's confidence a disservice. No, gone is the resistance; Hannibal comes to him as his mate, now, howling and clawing at Will as Will leads him on a chase. Will gasps, pulling back, and Hannibal tugs on his hand, turns him, and pulls him towards the stairs.

They enter Hannibal's bedroom – no, it is _their_ room, now, it is _theirs_ – and Will finds his back against the door as it closes, loud with his added weight on impact. Hannibal covers him, clutches at him with ravenous intent, his mouth on Will's as Will digs his nails into Hannibal's waist, tilts his head up when Hannibal's hand flattens on his neck. He shivers, alight with heat, radiating it as Hannibal does. He sees, in the glimpse of Hannibal's eyes he catches between one kiss and the next, a deep, rabid desire for Will. Closes his eyes and lets it wash over him like water, and he is drowning, the only air to be found what Hannibal breathes into him.

He wants to breathe into Hannibal in turn. Fill him, to the brim. Deeper than food and air and light.

He surges forward with a snarl, pawing at Hannibal's clothes as Hannibal pulls at his shirt, working it over his head to drop in a discarded mess on the floor. Hannibal's clothing is hard to negotiate, he resists the urge to simply rip it off him, but they manage, and fall in a mess of bared skin onto the bed. Will rolls them, shoves at Hannibal's shoulders until he's on his back, Will looming over him.

He leans down, purrs as Hannibal shivers, spreading his legs to make room for Will. His claws drag down Will's heaving flanks, his eyes unfathomably dark, like ocean depths. Will is _drowning_. Will smiles when he sees the lingering pink mark of his bite, leans down and noses at it, pleased when Hannibal turns his head, baring his throat. He wants Will's teeth, now, Will can feel it slide down his back; the naked desire, the burn of his need. Will's hands flatten on his chest, curling through the hair and sliding down, and Hannibal is hard, his cock leaking slick against his belly.

Hannibal rears up, a hand in Will's hair, pulling him down for another hungry kiss. His thighs tense around Will's hips, lifting into his touch, and Will smiles against his mouth, noses his way down Hannibal's jaw and to his neck while they catch their breath. He finds the old mark from his teeth, licks over it just to hear Hannibal rumble, feeling his hands flex and flatten on Will's back.

"I want you," he growls, because it feels like he might explode if he doesn't say something. He lifts his head, meets Hannibal's eyes, and slides a hand into his hair, tightening as Hannibal has done for him so many times. Hannibal's upper lip lifts, his eyes black in the low light, he raises his chin and growls when Will pulls on his hair.

"You have me," he replies, and his hands drag down to Will's hips, tightening, his thighs spread in invitation. He understands what Will can't quite say.

Will swallows, leans down for a kiss that is chaste, lingering, his mouth dry when Hannibal digs his nails in. The bottle of massage oil sits, unmoved, and he rears up and reaches for it, pops open the cap and wets his fingers, before returning it, and wrapping it around Hannibal's cock.

Hannibal's jaw clenches, and he lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his brow creasing in confusion as Will tightens his hand, strokes up slowly, thumbing at the slick leaking from him. Will leans down over him, shoves their foreheads together and grips Hannibal's nape tightly, stroking slow, as Hannibal's stomach sinks in and his hands grip hard enough to sting.

Will smiles, closing his eyes, biting his lower lip as he simply listens. Listens, to Hannibal's soft hitch of breath when he twists his wrist, to the brush of sheets against Hannibal's back, and below his heels as he lifts his knees and grips Will tightly, as though afraid he'll disappear. So Will kisses him, because he's here, he's right here, and he's not going anywhere. This feels _right_ , in a way seldom else has. He belongs here, with this powerful, dangerous man pinned below him, shaking and panting for him. They should have been doing this all along.

He swallows, and folds his hand, dragging his fingers down the bottom of Hannibal's cock, to where the oil has slicked his balls. He cups them gently, breathless to find them heavy, tender. Hannibal is letting him touch everywhere he's most vulnerable – Will could hurt him, like this, do terrible damage. But he won't.

He curls his fingers, dips them between Hannibal's tense thighs, and brushes the tip of two over where he's tight and dry, and Hannibal snarls at him like he did when Will bit; bucks up, but in askance, tugging on Will's hips.

Will's smile widens, shows teeth, and he kisses Hannibal with them, until his lower lip burns and he feels soft flesh give under his bite, until Hannibal moans and arches and claws at him with renewed fervor. Will has no choice – he pushes against Hannibal's rim until he feels it give, and sinks in to the second knuckle, shivering at how tight and hot Hannibal is on the inside.

" _Fuck_ ," he growls, and wants to touch himself, but he won't let go of his handhold for anything. He closes his eyes, presses his nose to Hannibal's neck, whines when Hannibal's head lifts and he kisses, open-mouthed and warm, along Will's shoulder. Slides a hand from Will's hip to his hair and grips him firmly.

Will's spine is hot, molten now, no amount of water or chill could stop him. He wants to speak, wants to ask if it feels good, if this is alright, but he can taste how good it feels – sensation is lighting him up, as he sinks his finger in deeper until it's stopped by the webbing of his hand. Hannibal is tensed, clenching, his thighs slick with Will's sweat as he lifts his hips to ask for more. He turns his head and traps some damp skin between his teeth, sucks to bloom another mark onto Hannibal's flesh and Hannibal snarls, bites him in turn, and the sharp spike of pain ricochets around in Will's head and settles, purring, at Hannibal's feet.

Hannibal relaxes, abruptly, like the bite sated him, too, and he's breathing hard when Will pushes in with a second finger, teeth gritted with the effort of working it in, for Hannibal is blister-hot, suffocatingly-tight, and Will has no idea how long he'll last when he gets inside him.

He rears up, forgoing his hold on Hannibal's nape to fist his cock instead, stroking him as he corrects his fingers and curls them up, like he would for a woman. He knows there's a spot inside a man that's similar, that feels so good when it's touched, and he wants to find it. He wants to see Hannibal unravel beneath him, more desperately than he needs to breathe.

He gets his wish when he feels, just at his fingertips, a small knot of something, different from the rest of Hannibal's heat. He smiles, huffing, and brushes his fingers in a smooth circle around it. The effect is immediate – Hannibal's cock twitches in his hand, and he gasps, chest expanding around a rapid inhale, his head tipped back to show his bitten neck, teeth bared in a snarl. Will does it again, and again, proud and purring as Hannibal's thighs shake and tighten around him, his heels drag through the sheets, and he lets out a quiet, very quiet, whine-like moan.

"Feels good?" he whispers, a question and not a question. Hannibal merely nods, jaw clenching so hard it bulges at the corner, and Will gasps as he goes tight, another heavy spurt of clear precum staining Will's hand and his stomach.

" _Will_ ," he growls, as Will brushes over his prostate again, rubs mercilessly with his fingers until Hannibal's breath hitches, his hands grip tightly and every part of him goes tense. "Darling, _please_."

Will stills, abruptly, and stares, wide-eyed. He tries to think of _any_ time Hannibal has begged for him, much less so desperately, and he can't. It spears him where he kneels, and he lets out his breath in something heavy and wanting, leans down and steals another kiss that is eagerly answered, as Hannibal lifts his hips again, so tight and warm, everywhere. Will is drowning, unmoored and taking in water, and he wants to sink.

He pulls his fingers out, rubbing the rest of the oil on his cock, and gathers Hannibal's thighs, tilting him so that his hips are raised, angled so Will can get inside him. He lets go of Hannibal's cock, flattening his hand instead over his sternum, able to feel the rapid, heavy pound of Hannibal's heart. He's not nervous, not in the slightest.

This is where he belongs.

Hannibal resists him, at first, unconsciously clenching as Will's cockhead pushes against his slick rim. But he gives, yields to Will as he does to no other, now, and Will clenches his eyes tightly shut. A fractured, desperate sound rises from his chest, stuck behind his teeth, and Hannibal folds and swallows it, grips Will's hair tightly and urges him to press over Hannibal, to flatten and consume him. He's fever-warm on the inside, smooth and _tight_ , fuck, Will might lose his Goddamn mind before this is over.

He presses in, one more inch, then another, until he has to stop, shaking and clawing at Hannibal's thighs, panting against his mouth. Hannibal grips his hair tightly, hauls him up for a kiss as Will whines, nails digging into the mattress beneath Hannibal's shoulders, his knuckles white. It's been too long, far too fucking long, and he knows he's about two well-placed touches away from losing it completely.

"I'm -." He pulls back, bows his head, growls as he sinks in another inch and Hannibal's body spasms around him. " _Hannibal_." His nose touches Hannibal's collarbone, he bares his teeth and bites, feels Hannibal snarl beneath him, locks his jaws when Hannibal rolls his hips.

Hannibal takes advantage of Will's stillness, holds him by the nape and lifts onto Will's thighs, forcing him deeper, and Will has to release his teeth and gasp, panting, seeking another kiss when Hannibal tugs on his hair. Then, they are locked together, Will's hands flying to Hannibal's hips to keep him steady, pressed deep as he can go, and the heat of him burns Will, brands him, and this, _this_ , is where they both belong.

He forces Hannibal's legs higher around his waist, guides his ankles to lock, and rears over him, kissing savagely, tugging at hair and muscle and sheets, whatever he can touch, as he moves, building up a rhythm. Every time he thrusts in, Hannibal's body parts for him as if being forced to, and it spears him like no shot of whiskey, no syrupy wine, no sweet port ever could. He flattens himself over Hannibal with a low moan, puts nails behind his shoulder and his mouth to Hannibal's neck, clutching him fiercely as he gasps and snarls and finally, _finally_ , takes what he wants.

Hannibal's nails find his back, clawing deep lines down either side of his spine and Will hisses, tenses and fucks in as deep as he can since Hannibal seems so eager to make him – his heels dig into Will, urging him onward, his thighs tense to stop him pulling back too far. The mattress creaks obscenely loudly beneath them and Will lifts his head, pushes their foreheads together and lets out a heavy breath, slowing.

Hannibal cups his neck, grabs tightly and Will gasps, opening his eyes. "Don't stop," he murmurs, the words no less fierce for how quietly they're said. Will shakes his head, breathing heavily, he feels like he's burning up from the inside, and Hannibal clenches up around him and his head drops, he lets out a low whine and kisses open-mouthed at Hannibal's neck.

"I won't last if I keep going," he rasps, and Hannibal shivers, a very sudden knot of tension moving down his spine. Will can feel it, pressed as close as he is, and it ends with Hannibal's cock twitching between their bellies and his ass bearing down around Will.

Will lifts his head, tilts it, wets his suddenly dry lips. Hannibal meets his eyes steadily, a dark flush on his cheeks, coloring his neck, sweat flattening his hair and shining on his golden skin. Will leans down, shivering as it makes him press into Hannibal in another mini-thrust, and kisses lightly at Hannibal's ear.

Takes his hands from Will's back and lifts them, instead. One of them he allows into his hair, tilts his head and sighs as Hannibal's knuckles curl and tighten, cradling his nape in a touch both gentle and clawed. His other hand, the one bearing his wedding ring, he kisses, and then flattens to the mattress. Pushes it up, lacing their fingers tight, and doesn't stop until their joined knuckles touch the headboard.

Hannibal breathes out heavily, pupils big and black, nostrils wide, and Will leans down and kisses him.

"You've always wanted some part of me inside you, haven't you?" Will growls, and he knows it's true. Just as Hannibal sits in his skull, has been carved into his forehead and belly and lingers, in his blood, in his bones – Hannibal is hollowed out by Will's very existence, and made a place for them. For both of them, and now Will is taking it. This is _his_ , this man is _his_ , and he'll be damned if anything should dare try to part them again.

Hannibal doesn't reply with pretty metaphors or flowery words. Perhaps he cannot think of any. He simply nods, lashes low as Will moves, and breathes, "Yes." And leans up for another kiss that Will eagerly, gratefully, grants him. He cups Hannibal's face with his free hand, spreads his knees and ruts in deeply, once, once more – and Hannibal bites, hard, on his lower lip, and Will goes still, gasping, stifling a choked-out whimper against Hannibal's neck as he comes. It's fever, wet and warm, and sensation lights him up, too much, not relief so much as envelopment, and Hannibal immediately lifts their raised hands and wraps his arm around Will when Will lets him go, pets through his hair and clings to him as Will trembles.

Will swallows, his throat raw and mouth dry, feeling the slick of his own come coating his cock as it softens, and he pulls back, wincing when it follows, staining their thighs. "Guess you got your wish," he murmurs, and Hannibal huffs a laugh that sounds very pleased. He loosens his legs from around Will, giving him room to breathe, and Will closes his eyes, sighing heavily, nuzzles at Hannibal's neck and pets down his flanks.

Slides in, finds Hannibal's flushed erection and wraps his fingers around it. He's soaking wet at the head, pale skin a dark pink, and Hannibal snarls when he strokes, tight and slow, tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

Will lets out another low, warning sound, leans over him and grabs his chin. Flattens his thumb over the old mark he left and waits until Hannibal meets his eyes.

"Watch me," he commands, and Hannibal's nostrils flare, his lips part, and he nods. Will smiles, and rewards him with a kiss, twisting his wrist at the head of Hannibal's cock just so that he gasps, so Will can lick between his teeth, teasing his desire to bite.

He pulls back before Hannibal can, flattens a hand on his chest so he can't rise up, and directs his attention to Hannibal's erection. It's warm, thick in his hand, his fingertips can barely touch when he slides the ring of them down. His mouth waters, he wants to taste it, wants to feel it inside of him – if he can make Hannibal feel half as good as Will did, fucking him, he deserves to have that. Will _wants_ him to have that.

"Do you -?" He swallows, clears his throat. Hannibal's cock twitches at the sound of his voice, another bead of precum spilling from the slit. Will smiles, brushing his thumb through it and adding it to the slick. "Do you need me to…reciprocate?"

He winces, internally – that question is far too vague, but he hopes Hannibal understands what he's asking. Will would be a fool to think that there doesn't linger some tension, some intrinsic prey-animal instinct that might be triggered without his permission. His throat remembers the feeding tube, his gut remembers the knife. Being at the mercy of Hannibal's violence and Hannibal's love are not that different.

Hannibal regards him, breathing heavily, and then he lets go of Will, shoving himself up onto his elbows and pulling back, until he's propped against the pillows. Will frowns, but has no time to let out a sound of displeasure before Hannibal is reaching for him, gathering him close until Will is sitting in his lap, thighs spread out wide, dirty, spent cock pressed tight to Hannibal's stomach and Hannibal's erection rutting between his legs.

Will grits his teeth, breathes in deep to calm the rapid-fire beat of his heart as Hannibal wraps an arm around his waist. Hannibal reaches between them and carefully coaxes his erection to rut up against the underside of Will's softened cock, and Will breathes out an unconscious sigh of relief, realizing Hannibal seems perfectly content to simply rut together.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, his voice very low and rough. He cups Will's face, makes him lift his head, lift his eyes, until their gazes meet, and Hannibal is smiling, the ring of whiskey-brown around his pupil almost invisible, but shining in the low light.

He kisses Will gently, slides his hand into Will's sweat-damp hair, and uses his other arm – strong, unyielding muscle, coaxing Will's shivering flesh into pliancy – to get Will to move, giving his cock something to grind against, and Will shivers and clings to his shoulders as he's kissed, again, and again.

"My beloved Will," he sighs, and Will smiles, blushing in a way that has nothing to do with the heat of their rutting bodies, the rush of his pulse, the lingering glow of post-coital relief that sits like a sated animal in his stomach. "Being with you like this is not a prize, or an exchange to be negotiated or bartered for." His hand pets through Will's hair, making sure his attention remains, but Will is allowed to drop his eyes, to kiss gently at Hannibal's neck and shoulder as Hannibal uses him for friction. "The fact that you allow me to touch you at all makes me the happiest and luckiest man alive."

Will swallows. "You make me happy, too," he murmurs, and Hannibal's hand stills in his hair. Will can't let him freeze, so he reaches down between his thighs, finds the wet head of Hannibal's cock and squeezes lightly, stroking what he can. Hannibal growls, grabs him and mouths at his neck and Will shivers, bares it, slides his free hand to Hannibal's nape. Encourages, with a soft, eager sound.

They wear the rings, everyone they meet knows they're together, but this is the only kind of seal that matters.

Hannibal parts his teeth, and bites down where Will's pulse rushes heaviest. Will shivers, unable to stop himself making a high-pitched, tense sound of pain, but he doesn't flinch away, not when he feels blood vessels burst and muscle split beneath Hannibal's teeth, not when the sting turns into a deep ache as Hannibal sucks, blooming a dark, dark bruise to his neck, not when he feels a _tiny_ break form beneath one of Hannibal's canines, feels his tongue lick over the bead of blood. It hurts, there's no way it doesn't hurt, but Will would take this any day over that deep, aching need that has sat in his stomach like a terrible disease. He wants Hannibal to burn it out of him.

"Please," he gasps, when Hannibal releases his neck with one final kiss, so chaste and gentle it spears him in place. He slides back so he can stroke more of Hannibal's cock, tightens and quickens his fist as Hannibal growls, clinging to him, his thighs trembling beneath Will's. He watches his face, unable to look away as Hannibal's lashes dip low, his mouth thins, upper lip twitching back. The lines around his eyes crease and he clenches his jaw, breathing in deeply. Will cups his neck, makes him lift his chin, leans in until their noses brush. "Let me see you. _Please_."

"Will…" It's barely more than a breath. Hannibal tenses, and tips his head back, closing his eyes as his cock thickens in Will's hand, and then he's coming, spilling between their stomachs. Will lets him go, grabs his flanks and grinds forward so Hannibal's come marks them both, staining their flushed, sweaty skin. Hannibal growls, surging forward and wrapping his arms around Will tightly, his nose in Will's neck as he finishes, his shoulders tense and his ribs expanding with a rapid inhale.

Will sighs, nuzzling Hannibal's sweaty hair, kisses the arch of his ear as Hannibal's cock starts to soften, spent. He drags his nails idly through the mess, rubbing it into his own stomach and Hannibal's, until Hannibal lets out a rumble of pleasure, kissing over the mark he left – then, up, finding Will's mouth and kissing him deeply.

Will sags against him, sated, utterly content. The place where Hannibal sits in his skull is purring, glowing with abject joy that he sees reflected on Hannibal's face when they part for air. He cups his face, stealing another kiss, hums with delight as Hannibal flattens his hands on Will's back and pets down, soothing his risen hackles and his trembling muscles.

The air is warm, colored gold, and Will takes his ringed hand, presses his cheek to Hannibal's palm and smiles when Hannibal does. They stink of sex and it smells good, his scent is embedded in Hannibal's skin and he's sure not even a shower will cure that. He likes Hannibal like this; purring and flushed and fine.

"I want this," he murmurs, because it feels like he has to say something. Hannibal blinks, slow, and smiles widely. "I want this every day for the rest of my life."

"How convenient," Hannibal replies, soft with amusement, lax and sated and almost slurring. Will grins, pleased to have ruined him so thoroughly. "So do I."

 

 

The next morning, Will wakes, content and sore and with a sharp, smarting pain on his neck. He rises and showers, and follows his nose to find Hannibal finishing with breakfast, leaving a dish in the microwave for Will to eat at his leisure.

Hannibal turns when he enters the kitchen, smiling widely, and Will returns it, not fighting the tug in his chest that compels him to go to his mate, his husband, and fall into his arms. Hannibal embraces him, nuzzling his hair, kissing his temple, and Will shivers, clinging to him and kissing over the mark he left on Hannibal's shoulder the night before.

"Good morning, Will," he murmurs, soft with joy.

"Mm. Morning," Will replies, and pulls back, eyeing Hannibal's state of dress. "I thought you didn't have to work today."

"Just for an hour or two," Hannibal says.

Will nods. "I thought I'd go to the lake this afternoon," he murmurs, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug, smiling down at his hands as Hannibal presses flat to his back with another hum, nosing at his neck.

"I do still owe Julia dinner," Hannibal says, and Will nods again, selfishly pleased that not even a flicker of jealousy stirs in him at the mention of Hannibal's coordinator. It is settled, robbed of teeth, for he knows Hannibal is his, in every way that matters. "Perhaps if you are fortunate enough, you might catch an extra for her, and we will serve it tonight."

Will grins, and turns with a raised brow. "Three fish, huh?" he asks. It's not a huge thing to ask, but he's feeling playful. Hannibal smiles, nosing at his neck again. "I might need some incentive."

Hannibal's hands still, on his flanks. His claws flex.

"What can I offer, darling?" His voice is teasing, and low.

Will turns in his arms, coffee forgotten for a moment, and laughs when Hannibal presses forward, pinning him to the kitchen counter. He lifts his chin and flattens his hands on Hannibal's chest.

"Three fish," he murmurs, and Hannibal's head tilts. His eyes drop to Will's mouth, then rise again. "Three kisses. Wherever I want."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his smile widens enough to show teeth.

"Gladly," he purrs.

Will smiles, and lifts his hand, brushing his fingers feather-light along his own forehead. "Here," he breathes, and Hannibal cups his face, leans in and presses his lips to the edge of the scar on Will's forehead. Lets it linger, until Will shivers, and then pets over his neck, where the bite is, pink-edged and throbbing. "Here."

Another kiss, and Hannibal parts his lips for this one, licks over the purple-red dotting of the bruise. Will bites his lower lip, lashes fluttering, and sighs at the warmth that lights up and flickers along his spine. He shivers when Hannibal pulls back, tilts his cheek into Hannibal's hand, and opens his eyes.

Touches, gently, Hannibal's lower lip. Hannibal doesn't wait for the third order – he leans in, and Will presses against him, wraps his arms around Hannibal's shoulders and kisses, lips parted, and gasps as Hannibal kisses him with all the passion of a first kiss, the fanned heat of their last one. It lingers, turning into a second, and a third; Hannibal is greedy and Will is, too, both of them gluttonous and starving for each other.

Will is breathing heavily when Hannibal finally releases him, and he grins. "That definitely counts for more than one."

Hannibal smiles, unrepentant. "I think we're both owed a little indulgence." Will huffs a laugh, too giddy, too happy to argue. He straightens Hannibal's wrinkled suit jacket and pets down his chest, and smiles when Hannibal nuzzles his cheek and steals one more kiss at the corner of his mouth. "I'll see you tonight, darling."

Will smiles, and nods, turning away to retrieve his coffee. The loss of Hannibal's heat behind him doesn't ache, for he knows Hannibal will return to him. Welcomes, now, the lingering shards of gold and red in his mind that are Hannibal's influence, that will keep him company, no matter where he is, until the man he loves returns to him. Right where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> And there we have it! Thank you to everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, and screamed at me about this fic. I hope you all enjoyed the ride!
> 
> See you in the next fic <3


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